If This Is All A Dream
by pjstillnoon
Summary: A dramatic Callian story, with explosions and guns and romance. #lietomelivesday
1. Chapter 1

"Let's go then," Cal tries to usher Gillian out of her office but she deftly steps around him and he thinks she's gotten too good at handling him.

"Let me get my purse," she tells him, going to her desk and reaching beneath it. If Cal was standing over there by the wall, he'd have a perfect view of her ass. He's tempted a look anyway, but glances away when Gillian straightens up. He pretends to be bored but she doesn't hurry for him. It amuses him, all the ways she pushes back against him; slows him down again when he gets too manic.

He drives and Gillian looks out the window. This is meant to be a routine interview, if they can find the person they're looking for, but it's nice to spend time with her again. For a while, she had them split on almost every case. Something about spending time with his protégé. But that passed and then it seemed like a good idea to work separate cases to get more done, and therefore more money. And then they went back to working with each other. That's how he likes it best.

"You went past it," Gillian notes from the passenger seat.

Cal has to turn and go back. He parks in front of the house next door and they both get out. It's sunny but not really warm; they're heading into winter (Gillian's kind of like barometer for the weather, and she's not yet in a coat, so it can't be that cold). He steps up onto the sidewalk, where she's waiting for him; then they walk past the hedge together to the house next door. It's a typical suburban home; two storeys, weatherboard, manicured lawn and smooth concrete driveway. Nothing particularly out of the ordinary.

As they walk up the driveway, Cal thinks he smells something strange, but it's probably just some pungent flower he doesn't recognise. He knocks loudly on the door and it pops the catch to swing open a few inches. He looks to Gillian who hooks back her sunglasses to the top of her head. She is surprised for a second and turns to look out at the street. Cal calls out, asks if anyone is home. He pushes the door a little more.

"We shouldn't go in," Gillian cautions.

"Doors open," Cal points out.

"It's still... trespass."

"Well," Cal turns back to her, his mind made up. In two seconds, he's just going to do what he wants anyway. "What if someone's in there and they're hurt?"

Gillian gives a sigh but she doesn't argue with that and he knows that curiosity gets the better of her, and that she won't refuse to go in with him; she doesn't like to leave him to his own devices.

So they go in.

Cal pushes the door all the way back. It smells strange inside the house too but he still can't place it. Kind of chemically, like someone likes a lot of bleach (he half thinks they might walk in on a blood bath). The furniture seems normal, if a little sparse and they don't come across anyone immediately. "Quick look around," Cal suggests, eager to get into the back, to get all the information.

"Quick," Gillian agrees and Cal can tell without even looking at her that she's apprehensive. "You smell that?" She asks.

"Someone might have needed to do some serious cleaning."

"If we find that, we're calling the police."

Cal grumbles a noncommittal response (but agrees in his head; of course he does) and moves across the open living room, which is opposite the kitchen, to the hallway leading into the back of the house. The door to the toilet is open and the seat is up. Gillian brushes past him to a spare bedroom on the right and pushes the door in. Cal goes further down, following. He thinks about calling out again, but figures that's only going to scare the crap out of his partner. Which could be funny.

"What's in there?" Cal turns to look over Gillian's shoulder.

"A mess," she answers with disdain. He catches a glimpse of rubbish, large black industrial plastic bags, clothes or rags, empty plastic containers, boxes, shredded (or just crumpled) papers, glass bulbs, a trestle table leaning under the window. The weird chemical smell is getting stronger and he really is starting to think someone is trying to cover up the stench of a rotting body.

He tries the next door on the other side of the hall and opens up on a bathroom. The window is taped over with more black plastic, buckets of clear and brown liquids, more rags, more plastic containers, painter's masks strewn on the floor and big plastic sheeting draped inside the tub. No body. But some seriously suspicious items; the picture is getting weirder. He hears Gillian try the next door, probably another bedroom, and he suddenly clicks as to what it all is. He turns to warn her, to tell her to leave it alone, to get out, but he only manages her name and then there's a bright flash, an almost simultaneous obnoxious roar of heat and noise and he's thrown back aggressively. His head thumps back as he lands and it takes him a long time to realise he's looking up at the sky.

The sky.

Like he's actually outside now, somehow. His ears are ringing and his face feels tingly and he can't feel his legs. After that, there's nothing.

**PJ**

Cal couldn't say how long he was unconscious for, though he definitely knows he loses it for a moment either way. It could have been minutes but it was probably more like seconds. That's the only way he can explain what he sees next. He comes around and gains his vision back (he knows by experience that when people black out their eyes stay open, even though they're staring blankly out of them). As he turns his head to the side, trying to get a grip on the situation, he notices that there is a car in the driveway. It's black, one of those big GMC sports vehicles that the government tends to drive around in. Which almost straight away makes him think he's looking at a governmental vehicle. And it gives him a little spark of hope. He thinks it's a rescue.

He's wrong though.

He starts to take stock of his body, his awareness of position and injury come in. His right leg is an absolute mess of pain, stretched out away from him (his left leg is actually tucked under his right knee). The agony is so bad, he can't actually tell which part of his leg is damaged. It feels lower down, around his ankle somewhere, but the pain is radiating up to his groin in bursts of sharp and regular electrical rivers that starts to make him feel nauseous. His right wrist aches, his head on the same side, and he's not sure, but it feels as though he's lying under a blanket of building material. He raises his head a little to look (he's glad that he can at least move that much of himself; he's not completely paralysed) and he's not entirely off the mark. The side of the house has blown out around him and grey smoke is licking around the top of the hole to escape up into a flawless blue sky.

Cal hears the muffled sound of voices and turns his head to the drive again. He makes out the identification plate on the car and focuses in on the letters and numbers. Then two men come into view from around the corner of the house (what's left of the house). Neck tired, Cal puts his head down again, still repeating the plate number of the car. He's not sure he expects a rescue, but he's half tempted to give in to relief. Until the two men get into the car, doors slamming quickly. The engine starts, the car backs away.

That's definitely not a sign of help.

Cal thinks of his cell phone, tries to shift to reach it, but even that tiny movement sends more fiery agony up his leg from his foot and it makes spots appear in front of his vision. They take too long to disappear. His head starts throbbing and he's not sure he can hear properly. He's not sure what he should be hearing. Sirens? Something, he supposes. The smell of burning wood is thick around him and he gets a grip on himself. The house is on fire and last time he looked, Gillian was in there. She was closer to the explosion, right opposite the room with the meth lab that would have gone up. Those things were volatile; any little thing could set them off and the chemicals involved were highly explosive and flammable.

The panic Cal feels makes everything hurt a little more and struggling to get free really doesn't help. But Gillian is in there somewhere, amongst the mess, and it doesn't seem as though help is on its way. Or it could be, but Cal doesn't know how far away it is. And she was right there in front of the explosion. There's a raging fire in the house now, and Cal could guarantee that the epicentre was only a few meters away from Gillian.

Cal struggles a little more, but it's futile; he's in too much pain, has too much damage, is covered by too much heavy crap, and is essentially useless. He does hear sirens though and even though he can't free himself he can make it clear that he's there. A fire engine pulls up in front of the house and flame retardant uniforms descend. They find him easily enough. He tells them about his friend inside and there's a buzz of energy as the fire professionals go about their jobs.

Cal just about cries when they pull him roughly out from beneath some plaster board (they did check his neck first and he made sure they knew he could feel his damn toes). They transfer him to a brace board, then a gurney, then an ambulance. As paramedic's work on him, taking his blood pressure, giving him oxygen, splinting his broken bones (with that much pain, his leg _has_ to be broken), Cal suddenly realises who the two men were who left the house. And it sends a different kind of jolt through him.

That was Jerome Willis and his personal aid.

**PJ**

The door isn't actually closed when Gillian grabs the knob. So she doesn't have to turn it or anything elaborate, barely shoves against it; doesn't give her presence away. She pushes the door open a little and comes face to face with a man. He's in white protective coveralls but without the hood up over his head, and has a white cotton breathing mask over his nose and mouth. He's across the room, but she recognises him easily and it surprises her to find him here. Her existence startles him just as equally. She quickly clocks his outfit, the stench of chemicals, the large industrial sheets of clear plastic hung from the walls and the roar of a Bunsen burner on a work table against the wall. The windows are covered over with black plastic (she doesn't think it's to keep the light out, more like keep prying eyes from looking in).

It's a meth lab. She just walked into a meth lab. That's why it smells so weird. And why there is so much junk and trash everywhere. Even more of the case makes sense now; the vast amounts of cash and the dodgy associates.

In mere seconds she realises what all of this means, the far reaching implications when it makes the news, but mostly that she and Cal are in danger. Not just because of the noxious concoction of chemicals being cooked in the room she stands on the threshold of (completely unprotected too), but because of the people involved. They need to get out of there right now. And they need to start contacting other people, with jurisdiction and authority; someone with some actual power that can make arrests and make official inquiries.

But as she turns to yell at Cal to leave immediately, the man she stumbled upon drops the box in his hands and rushes for the window, tearing back the plastic and yanking it open. He's fast. Like he's practiced this. Gillian hears her name called from behind her but she barely has time to register it or respond. She's just starting to turn back when there's a massive flash of light and a wave of roiling heat. Her hand is still on the edge of the door and she pulls it towards her without thinking, partially protecting herself; the blast does the rest in swinging it towards her. She closes her eyes against the light and the heat and turns her head away. She does it on instinct. And she does it simultaneously; in an instant.

She's being shoved back next, hard, the shock wave of the explosion hitting her. She knows the meth lab just exploded, all those chemicals... but doesn't think about much after that. She suspects she's on the floor of the hallway (or at least somewhere in the house) but her ears are ringing and her eyes are still shut and she's dazed; she can't form a coherent response to anything. She doesn't know which way is up or down, left or right. She's not sure if Cal is near her or far; no idea if he's hurt or needs her help. She's not sure if she's injured herself, unconscious, or if this is all a dream. She has a thought about the man getting away through the window; wonders if he got out in time.

She has half a thought about getting out of the house; knows with an explosion like that, with all the flammable chemicals around, that there will be a fire.

But she's not sure if this is all really happening and whether she's conscious or not. She doesn't feel the warmth creeping towards her. Doesn't feel pain in any way. Can't detect light. She doesn't notice a smell or a taste.

She starts to see colours behind her eyes and isn't sure if she's awake, or if this is just a dream.


	2. Chapter 2

The house, it looks like nothing from the outside. Just another house on a street of Middle America. But it's not really. It's a safe house, or at least, it's meant to be a house where she can be kept safe for a little while. A US Marshal pulls the vehicle into the drive way and Gillian stirs from fantasising about the house next door, which looks newly renovated, or maybe just new, because it looks modern, two storeys, brick and weatherboard, the driveway curving gently up a slight hill. This house though, it's just nondescript. Another holiday home built in the '70's, an odd turquoise colour; not out of place on a street of pastels.

There's a single tree in the unfenced yard and snow on the ground, piled, like someone took the time to shovel the walk, but patchy to let the green of the grass come through; it's thawing. But it's still icy cold and Gillian feels every strained breath deep in her chest like someone's rammed a fist down her throat to her diaphragm. She huddles into her coat a little more, pulls the collar tighter against her throat, trying to deny to herself that she feels that awful from merely stepping out of the car.

The marshal carries the small bag she had with her in the hospital (she doesn't know why, because there is absolutely nothing in it she wants or needs. Except the medications) and leads the way to the front door. He's in a suit, like he's nipped out at lunch to bring his wife home from the hospital, and Gillian wonders if this is the exact image 'they' were going for. She doesn't quite remember what the cover story is meant to be, despite being briefed before she signed her discharge papers; they worked one out for her, seeing as she wasn't really in a position to be able to do it herself. She figures they wouldn't let it go that easily; there may even be a test later on.

The marshal, medium height, brown hair, thirty something by the look of it, whose name began with G - either something Graham, or Graham something – knocks twice, short and sharp, subtle and discrete, then produces a key and opens the door anyway, his body angled, secretive. Gillian follows him. The inside is nothing like the outer image. In here its wooden floors, greys and beiges on the walls, tall ceilings; Gillian can see expansive windows and doors in the kitchen. From the entranceway she can see into the living room on the right (thick shag rug, homely but modern furniture, widescreen TV) and the dining room/kitchen on the left. But she's distracted because someone else is here and panic spikes in her stomach for a split second, despite the marshal moving forward and being seemingly completely unfazed, but it's Cal.

It's Cal.

And the relief overwhelms the panic. He's in front of her quickly, his hands at her arms, dipping his head to see her face, eyes piercing and worried. "Gill," he murmurs and pulls her into a hug, tight and painful, but she doesn't have the heart or the strength to resist him, to push him aside. "I was worried sick," he just about whispers and she knows, because she started worrying about him too. She was in the hospital for three days and she had no idea where he was or even if he was ok. The marshal's, they're not a very talkative bunch, not unless they want something.

Mr Graham/Grant/Gram? puts her bag down at the edge of the hallway, which recedes off towards the back, to a doorway, possibly the toilet by the look of it, and then faces them. His eyes are brown, Gillian didn't notice before. Cal gives her one last squeeze, his arm digging painfully into her back (why does that hurt so much?) and steps back a little. He moves weirdly, a little hop and a spasmodic shift of his weight. Gillian notices the full leg cast on his right appendage. And then another on his arm, same side.

Oh.

Shit.

He isn't ok.

"We'll need to brief you on..."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Cal cuts in immediately. "Can I get a minute to talk to my partner? First time I've seen in her days."

The marshal looks stunned for a second, then the tiniest hint of embarrassment crosses his face, before he purses his lips. But the joke is on Cal, because there's that short double knock on the door again (is it meant to be a code?) and then two more men let themselves in. Gillian doesn't get a chance to ask Cal what happened to him, because they're bustled into the living room (where it looks like Cal has been living on the couch for the last however many days he's been there, probably by himself) and they're given the run down, the full extent of it.

Right now, they are in temporary holding, particularly while Gillian was still having medical attention. More permanent lives were being set up for them now, including new identities and a place to live (and once that information is finalised, the marshals will be back to inform her and Cal, and move them to the new location). They need to decide on new names within the next twenty-four hours so that their identities can be changed. The marshal's expect to get them moved within a few days.

Gillian feels her lungs tightening at just the thought of it. She remembers federal agents coming to see her in the hospital, taking a statement from her, suggesting the idea of witness protection (she's not really sure what she saw). She had to sign before she passed into their care. She could only assume Cal did the same (and it looks like he did). At the time, she didn't even think about what his decision would be. She probably just supposed they were in it together; it looked like they were. Or, she had only been thinking about herself.

There are conditions of being in the witness protection program though: they have to testify when the case goes to trial. Actually, that is the main one; in exchange for protection, they have to testify. Whether they remain in the witness protection program after that is up to them. They can leave at any time before trial if they so wish; can leave right _now_ in fact. They can even return to their lives in DC and take their chances that they won't be killed as a result of what they have witnessed. That being said, the marshal's recommend they don't contact anyone from their old lives. No one, who has refrained from contact, has been killed under the program. But the choice is theirs.

They are allowed to pick their new names but their new lives will be set up by the US Marshal's. They don't get to decide where they were going, when, or what they will do once they are there. But they will be kept alive. And the threat must be sufficient enough if they've been taken away before the IV has even been removed from Gillian's arm.

Any questions?

"Yeah," Cal raises his hand slightly, as if he were in school, and Gillian finds it hard to tell if he's being facetious or not. He doesn't seem overly affected by what's happening (aside from the hug at the door) while Gillian's insides are churning uneasily; she's trying to remember and listen but it's starting to overwhelm her. She can feel it escaping onto her face. If Cal even glanced over, he would see.

Two days ago, while she was lying in a hospital bed, it felt literally like she was going to die and now the threat to her life is going to be hanging over her for a long time, possibly for the rest of it. They haven't even been given a specific court date because no arrests have actually been made yet. The federal agencies are still working to make their case (they need evidence as well as their eye witness testimonies). Who knew how long that could take?

"What about my daughter?"

"We're trying to locate her now," one of the newly arrived marshals answers. He seems to be in charge. The marshal's all have common names, like Smith and Wagner, but Gillian can't remember who is who. She is tired and having difficulty concentrating.

"What do you mean 'locate' her?" Cal presses.

"Your daughter seems to be missing right now."

"What do you mean missing?"

Gillian catches the rise in pitch of his tone: fear. She turns her head to him on the couch, sees the scabs along his cheek and temple, noticing for the first time there is a large bruise over his eyebrow, like someone has tried to punch him in the eye and missed slightly. She has been through hell, but maybe he has too; and she wonders just exactly what it is that he has been through.

"Marshal's called into her dorm, but were unable to locate her. We're doing our best."

Cal grumps something and Gillian reaches for his unscathed left hand, slipping her fingers beneath his; she can't think of anything reassuring to say. He looks at her and squeezes her hand tightly. She gets it, he is freaking out, but there isn't anything he can do from here. He has to let the marshals do their work; they're good at their jobs, she hopes. Gillian figures if he were able bodied, he would have flown out to California himself to find his daughter. Especially if she was potentially in danger.

"Can I call her?"

"Doctor Lightman it is best if you let us handle it for now."

"Cal," Gillian whispers. She isn't trying to be dramatic or secretive; her voice just isn't strong at the moment. She hasn't really talked much in the last few days and there's a nasty bitter taste in the back of her throat.

Cal looks over at her again. He sighs, doesn't look happy at all, but he does concede. And Gillian suspects it's just a matter of time before he takes action anyway. Marshal Wagner/Walker? takes his victory, gives them his card again, warns them to be careful and to stay put for now, then leaves with his colleagues. Gillian suddenly notices how quiet the house is, the neighbourhood. It feels a bit like being the last people alive on earth. At least, for a second. Cal turns to her almost immediately, before the front door even closes, his eyes intense. "You all right?"

"I'm fine," Gillian manages to not sound strange this time.

"No really." He kind of looks her up and down quickly. "What are the doctors saying?" He slips his fingers from her hand quickly and brings his palm to her cheek, scooping back the hair that half attempts to hide the burns on her neck. He does it before Gillian can react, before she can hide (she doesn't know how he even knows they're there. He can see them?), and then she realises, she doesn't want to, doesn't feel the need. Not from Cal. He isn't tearing her apart, he's asking her to let him in a little. And they are in this together. Alone, it seems.

All they have is each other now.

"I'm going to be fine," Gillian repeats. "In a few weeks." All going to plan anyway. Hopefully.

Cal nods. "Good. All right." He seems to relax. "They wouldn't tell me anything at all. Wouldn't even tell me if you were here as well." He lets her hair go, brings his hand back to hers in her lap. He's sitting awkwardly on the couch cushion, his full leg cast stretched out to rest on the coffee table; it restricts the movement of his body so he can't turn fully towards her and he kind of vibrates with constrained energy.

"Here?" Gillian queries. Come to think of it, as she was driven here, she hadn't recognised the city.

"Kasson," Cal supplies softly.

"Where?"

"I think that's the point."

"Where's Kasson?"

"Bout twenty minutes from Rochester."

Gillian's head blurs. "In which state?"

"Minnesota."

"Minnesota?"

Cal nods.

"How long have you been here?"

"They flew me out of DC as soon as the plaster and ink dried."

Gillian looks down at his arm; the clean, white cast absolutely looks new. Of course it would be. She hasn't lost time. She woke up in the ambulance; she remembers the medical flight (and now she realises they did tell her where they were taking her: the Mayo clinic in Rochester). "How bad is it?"

Cal lifts his broken arm, gives it a little wave back and forth, like he needs to draw her attention to it. "Not so bad. Broken ulna."

A 'nightstick' fracture. The nick-name explained the most common way of breaking that particular arm bone.

"And your leg?" Gillian eyes the vast expanse of white. It goes right from his toes to nearly the top of his thigh, by the look of it. She notices that he seems to be wearing pyjama pants, with one leg almost entirely cut off around the plaster (the edge all ragged and uneven like he did it himself). He can't be at all comfortable.

"Tibia something. It'll be fine." Cal wiggles his fingers at her. "Same for the arm."

"Did you have to have surgery?"

"Nope. They set it and patched me up and sent me out here."

To Minnesota.

"What happens next?"

Cal gives a shrug and his face clouds slightly. "Not much we can do is there?" It doesn't feel much like a question he is expecting an answer to. Nor one he really wants to even voice. He changes his face to give her an open earnest expression and she figures he's had about three days to think of all the ways he can't possibly do anything while his entire leg is encased in gypsum. Cal watches her for a moment. "Is there?"

Gillian deliberates for a moment but her thoughts are scattered and hard to hold on to and she is not prepared to answer. She is too tired and she's not given it any thought. She glances at the clock above the fire place. Ten thirty. In the morning. And it has already been a long day. "I don't know," she answers Cal, because now it really does seem like he's waiting for her answer.

"You look tired."

"I am."

"So what happens next, is a sleep."

"First, a shower," Gillian rolls her shoulders, feeling the muscles threatening to bunch uncomfortably and the first threatening twinge of a headache.

Cal lifts his right arm, drops his head to his armpit and sniffs. "Could probably do with one of those too."

Gillian smiles and pushes herself up from the deep couch (deep enough for two people to lie on next to each other).

He doesn't smell that bad, really.

**PJ**

Cal is already set up in the master room; he sheepishly tells her he didn't think to do otherwise (he means be gentlemanly and leave the bigger room for her), but she doesn't care. She doesn't need the prestige, just a mattress and a pillow for her head after she takes a quick shower. There are towels, easily enough, on a tall shelving unit behind the door. Cal points out the new toothbrush waiting for her under the sink; he's hobbling around behind her with one crutch under his good arm and a couple of bulky casts. The shower is stocked with shampoo, soap, body wash, bath bombs, a loofa (all new, some still in the plastic). Cal informs her that there are clothes in the closet in her room (so he's obviously been snooping around). Then he tells her he'll see her later and shuts the bathroom door of the master bedroom to give her some privacy.

Gillian starts to feel so tired, she might just fall asleep standing. She doesn't know why they bothered giving her a bag from the hospital. She didn't have anything of hers with her, still doesn't. Everything was left behind; it wasn't like she had the chance to pack. She wonders what kind of clothes are in the closet (and just how much snooping Cal did) and decides she's just going to nap naked if she has to. She might literally end up on the floor unconscious in a minute anyway.

The warm shower is nice and the steam opens up her lungs, making it the easiest to simply breathe she's felt in days. She washes her hair, sending the last of the acrid ashen smell down the drain, and, finally feeling refreshed and like she's human again (and a bit more energetic too), she goes from the bathroom to the hall and the few meters to the spare room in a towel only; no Cal in sight. He's right though, there _are_ clothes in the closet, and the drawers, and in the two small compartments at the top, there are socks, panties, bras (as well as an assortment of men's underwear). With their tags on. And nothing that fits her properly. She wonders whose house this is. Who's clothes they are. Who stocked the place? What kind of cover there is for the neighbours, who surely must find it strange having different people showing up and leaving again?

She dries off carefully and too slowly; the overwhelming fatigue starts to set in again and she thinks more about sleeping than giving in to how weird it is that someone went to buy underwear, possibly for her... At least the tags are still on. And if the panties aren't meant for her, she'll go buy more to replace them. She pulls the tag from a pair of safe black cotton and slips them on. They're loose. She thinks she might have lost weight in her three day hospital stay. The next drawer down lends a grey t-shirt, way too big for her (it's probably for a guy), but she uses her teeth on the plastic tag and tugs it over her head. It smells like a store. But she still doesn't care. She gets into bed. Pulls the blanket over her head to block out the light. And closes her eyes.

She wakes suddenly to a tapping and she's panicking for a second, her heart sharply spikes against her lungs, not sure where she is or what's going on; it takes a few seconds to catch her breath. There's daylight but she's sleepy and she's disorientated. Her name is whispered from across the room. She pushes back the blanket, has to take several swipes to get the hair out of her face, pushes herself up to see and squints over at the door. Cal. "What?" she mutters, still more panicky than annoyed. She was dead asleep. Completely out of it.

He's hovering but when she speaks he lets the door swing open a bit more and he does a funny hop/shuffle/skip to the bed, pressing down on his broken leg (no crutch this time) and wincing as he goes.

"I don't think you're meant to be trying to walk on your leg," Gillian notes.

"Yeah," Cal says. He reaches the bed and leans his hands down on the mattress. He oddly looks like a five year old eagerly trying to please an adult. "Are you awake?"

"I am now."

"It's been hours," he tells her and she has no idea of the time now or what it was before when she actually got into bed, has no idea if he's serious about her being asleep for hours, or if he just got bored on his own. It barely feels as though she even closed her eyes and she could already do with more. If she looks though, she can see the shadows are in different places around the walls. "Thought we should talk."

Gillian watches him for a moment, not sure what to say. He woke her up to talk? "About what?"

He shifts, straightens up, swings his broken leg around, looks as though he's going to lose his balance and fall to the floor, but angles his backside and bounces onto the mattress so he's sitting beside her. Gillian gives up on leaning on her elbow; it's losing the feeling anyway. She snuggles into the pillow again, closes her eyes, waits.

"Thought we should get our stories straight," Cal murmurs.

Gillian opens her eyes again, has to tilt her head back to see his eyes. "What do you mean? You want to get the lie the same?"

"Yes," he responds slowly, cautiously, watching her. "Our lives."

It sounded like he said 'our lies' and Gillian has to think about it for a second. But she's pretty sure he said 'lives' which means he must have misheard her. She goes with it.

"How do you want to play it?"

Gillian closes her eyes again, thinking. How _does_ she want to play it? The truth is: she doesn't know. Actually, she isn't entirely sure she knows what he's talking about; he's asking her about what happened right? "I need to think about it Cal." She pauses and he doesn't say anything so she opens her eyes again, looks up at him. He's watching but he's not judging or pressuring. "I don't even know where to start."

"The beginning?"

"I'm not sure I remember what happened." There's a flicker of something on his face and Gillian suddenly knows: he remembers all of it. Every detail. She was knocked unconscious by the explosion pretty much as soon as it went off. But it seems that Cal remembers other details about what happened afterward. The curiosity inside her is sharp; she wants him to tell her. Because even though she gave a statement to the federal authorities, she's not sure what she said even then. She was not well and medicated and she had just been through a major trauma. With time to think, she remembers big holes in her story, like trying to recall a dream and realising that logically, it didn't entirely make sense. But she's going to have to do better than that when this whole thing eventually breaks down and they go to court. Hopefully this will all break down.

"How long do you think we'll be here?" Gillian murmurs.

She can hear Cal sigh, even if he maybe tried to be subtle about it. "Dunno," he admits. "Hopefully not the rest of our lives," his tone is distasteful.

Gillian's not sure what to make of that. She doesn't know if it will be safe to simply return to their old lives once this is all over. There could be retaliation. A public shootout wasn't the only way to get back at someone.

"Have you already given your statement?" Gillian asks, wanting to keep conversation going. What she wants is to be able to ask Cal what he thinks about it all, but she also feels she needs a chance to build up to that; mostly for her sake. It seems too scary, too surreal.

"Had a chat with them the other day."

Gillian thinks this is good (at least they're both at the same point in the process) and looks up at him again. For a short moment, she sees him staring despondently across the room. He meets her eyes for a second but she closes hers, tries to shut him out again. She wants to lie in bed and feel sorry for herself; she doesn't _really_ want to think about any of it. Her lungs are damaged and her skin is burned, and worse: the chemicals have done something to fog her brain (that she really, really hopes will wear off). But Cal was broken in that explosion as well and he's been here for three days by himself with no information, possibly thinking the worst. And, there was a chance they would have been split up; she thinks maybe they should have been, technically. But they're not. They're together. And that is at least something. So as much as she wants to be completely selfish about it, and tell him to leave her alone so she can think and go back to sleep, she doesn't. Because that's not who she is.

She forces herself to sit up and takes his left hand in hers. His fingers are a little cold and although he seems uncomfortable all of a sudden, he doesn't pull away from her. They sit for a moment, her under the covers in a grey t-shirt and underwear that's a little too big (she can feel it slipping down with that move), and him on top of the blankets, tense and still (Gillian can feel it in the way he holds his arm), both thinking and neither talking. Gillian wonders what goes through his mind; he doesn't seem his normal calculating self, which is not surprising if he's come to her to fish for information, but it does put her on the back foot; usually, he takes charge (if she were someone else, he would probably try fishing a little harder).

"They did say we could pick our own names," Gillian notes softly.

Cal hums next to her and his fingers tighten.

**PJ**

Despite wanting to be, Gillian isn't very good company. They ordered pizza and she had a slice, picked at another, but found she wasn't very hungry. Cal had cash (Gillian realised she had none at all) and she didn't feel like cooking; took one look at what was in the fridge and decided she couldn't bothered trying to make any sense of it all. Cal barely managed to follow her around the house on his broken leg and awkward use of a crutch (which she found equally cute and annoying. It seemed he had missed her, but he really should be resting the limb as much as possible) while she gave the kitchen a quick inspection, and settled on the couch. She knew he wasn't meant to be walking on the cast, seeing as it was still new, but the obvious pain he felt and the warnings she tried to give were unsurprisingly ignored.

They talked a bit, but about nothing concrete, each trying to figure out what the other was thinking without giving too much away. And it was exhausting, trying to play that game, all that mental acuity. Gillian fell asleep on the couch. When she wakes again, Cal is watching TV, his broken leg stretched out to rest on the coffee table again. He has put a blanket over her and for a moment she watches him, a hand curling the wool up against her chin. He looks the same, but he's different. She's so used to him in movement; strutting around the office, getting in someone's face. To see him sit still, to observe him when he doesn't know she's watching, is different, almost strange. And he looks worried.

"Is the TV too loud?" Cal asks, not looking over, startling her a little.

"No," Gillian croaks out, her chest feeling heavy and panicky. She has gotten too cold and she can feel it in her lungs. She shifts, stretching out a leg, finding too much of Cal too close. He grabs at her ankle, pulling it towards him so the length of her leg unfolds. He rests her foot against his sternum and readjusts the blanket, moving absently at first, then tearing his gaze from the television. He does it so naturally, so easily, the manhandling; Gillian doesn't have the presence of mind to be weirded out by the fact that she has a leg just about resting in his lap and her foot at his chest. The toes of her other foot are under his thigh and his fingers find bare skin as he moves the blanket (she put pyjama pants on after she got out of bed). He fusses for longer than necessary, until Gillian clicks that he is trying to cover himself up as well. She shifts some more, finds excess blanket, shoves it towards him; sits and spreads it out to cover the both of them equally.

"There's more pizza," Cal gestures to the box on the table with his casted hand.

"I'm ok," Gillian declines politely. The thought of cold cheese turns her stomach. She closes her eyes again, tries to work on calming her breathing, staying in control.

"You sure you're all right?'

"Yes," Gillian repeats, opening her eyes to look at him again.

His face is concerned. "You breathing is terrible when you're asleep. I was thinking about waking you."

Gillian watches him a moment longer, her heart beating in a funny way. She doesn't know what to say; doesn't know how bad it was, doesn't think she can tell him it will be fine. She closes her eyes first and listens to the words on the television, is surprised at the dialogue. When she opens her eyes to confirm her suspicions, she's right: Cal is watching an old rerun of 'I Dream of Genie'. It makes her smile, despite the heaviness still lingering in the air, and she has to hide it against the blanket again.

"Those were the days," Cal speaks. "When a woman did what her husband told her."

Gillian gives a huff of disapproval and digs her big toe into his sternum.

"Ouch!" Cal protests loudly, grabbing at her ankle with his left hand, while rubbing at the sore spot with the fingers poking out the top of his cast. "I'll send you to bed with no supper."

"Please," Gillian says with disdain and twists her foot free. She sits, shifting it out of his easy reach. "You couldn't chase a cat from the room right now." Cal gives her a cold stare but she ignores him. "Speaking of supper," Gillian throws back the blanket. "Want tea?"

"Yep," Cal agrees. He doesn't get up to follow her this time.


	3. Chapter 3

Gillian wakes in the night and again, she is disorientated. This is not her bed and she is not at home. Then: this isn't the hospital either. And _then_, oh yeah. She shivers hard and tries to reposition to get comfortable, curling up on herself, hunching, constricting her muscles, but she is too far gone; not enough of a glow to the embers to get the fire going again. She's freezing. She pushes back the blankets, feels the chill of the air deep in her lungs (and the ache that goes with it), and decides against getting out of bed. And yet if she doesn't get up for more clothes, she isn't going to warm up anyway. Conundrum. May as well. If she goes quickly...

She throws back the covers and gooseflesh doubles over her arms and legs. She swings off the mattress and tiptoes across the bare, icicle floorboards to the dresser and pulls the top drawer to find socks. They are still in the packet and she is dismayed she didn't think to unpack a little bit more that evening when she wasn't half asleep and already freezing to death. She doesn't know what time it is now, but it is beyond cold. She fumbles with the pack of socks in the dark for half a minute, shivering, gooseflesh marring over her skin second after second, the crackle of the encasing loud, but she as she's finally giving up and thinking to put the light on, she tears back the plastic easily all of a sudden. She pulls thick cotton over icy toes.

In the closet, still feeling around in the dark, she finds a sweater, but they also have tags on them still and her teeth are too weak for the plastic, even though she tries a few different angles; she worries she is going to cut her gums. She needs scissors, and she needs them fast, because she is seriously going to turn into a snowwoman. She grabs the pyjama pants she shed before getting into bed (thinking she was going to be too warm) and just about hops the few steps to the bathroom in socked feet and bare legs, putting the light on in there to see where she's going and what she's doing. She goes to the sink and opens the top drawer beneath. There are products in there, soaps and shaving foam, razors, toiletries (most of them still in the packet). She tries the next drawer. Cotton buds and Q-tips, tissues, condoms, a box of tampons. The third drawer contains more bath bombs, tiny bottles of various products; Gillian doesn't even bother to rummage. In the cupboards she finds tissues, cloths, toilet paper, a first aid kit, and there was, thankfully, scissors in it. She cuts the tag and starts to pull on the sweater.

"Gill?"

She freezes. Well, she is already frozen, but she stops moving, and turns to the master bedroom door; the bathroom isn't an en suite, but there is direct access from the main bedroom. The door is currently wide open. And she has the light on. She has woken up Cal. She starts to go to the door, and stops herself again. She has no pants on right now. "Sorry," she calls instead, trying to be soft but also wanting him to hear her. She tugs the sweater down sharply and starts on the pyjama bottoms.

"You all right?"

She hears something that sounds like him getting out of bed and rushes her legs into the trousers. She goes for the door to stop him. "I'm fine." Looking into his room she can see the light spills right across the bed, over the pillows. He's sitting up, the blanket across his lap, his left leg resting on the carpet; she was right, half in the process of getting out of bed. "I'm sorry to wake you."

"I was awake."

"Oh." She pauses. He waits. "I got cold, that's all," Gillian tempts to stand back, to return to her bed.

"What did you need in the bathroom?"

"Scissors," Gillian responds with another shiver. She folds her arms around her body, trying to get warm; she can't feel her toes and the sweater doesn't seem to be helping. She thinks about that second pair of socks when she gets back to her room; the blankets might help too (and failing that, a hot shower). "Why weren't you asleep?"

"Can't."

"Did you try?"

Cal gives a snuffle of a laugh. "Yeah I tried for several hours. It's two in the morning."

Gillian's eyes travel over to the digital clock beside his bed. He's right about the time. "Are _you_ ok?" She asks him as she goes over to the bed.

"Yes. Well, as much as can be expected. Bloody uncomfortable this," Cal gestures to the bulky lump of his broken leg beneath the covers.

Silence.

Gillian doesn't have any answers for that. She wonders if he has pain medication, whether it's even pain that keeps him awake, or just that the cast is huge and difficult to manoeuvre.

Gillian looks at the time again. Her eyes hurt. She needs to sleep; lots more sleep. That is the best way for her body to heal. Tomorrow she is... going to do something more productive; anything would be more proactive than all the sleeping she has done. She had been restricted to a hospital bed in an isolated hospital room for three days and now she at the very least needs to figure out what the hell is going on. She fidgets with the bed spread, smoothing it, like she is going to tuck him in. "Well, goodnight," she starts to turn away yet again.

"I'm warm."

Gillian does a double take. In the gloom, she can see Cal watching her. His expression is mostly impassive, but there is something else in it... like a challenge. "You're cold," Cal supplies, leaning back on an elbow, gesturing with his broken arm to the other side of the mattress. "Jump in. Get warmed up."

Oh, she thought he meant he was warm like a fever but what he meant was: he had body warmth (that he's willing to share). That _did_ sound appealing. Especially because her own sheets would now be cool (if they were even remotely warm before she got out of bed). Cold ripples jaggedly up Gillian's back and her decision is made. She reaches down for the mattress, absently intending to tell him to scoot over.

"You have to go round though."

Gillian straightens up. "I'll get the light," she suggests instead, half embarrassed, forgetting all about his leg, thinking that she was going to cuddle up against him.

Like she normally did with the men she shared a bed with.

She scolds herself against those thoughts.

**PJ**

She sleeps shallowly, and it isn't surprising, because despite being warm, Cal doesn't rest very peacefully. He shifts a lot; he doesn't turn over, just shifts his weight uneasily back and forth like the rocking of the ocean. Or an earthquake. Gillian is pretty sure she kicked him in the leg at one point and heard him wince. After that she moved over. She was still warm enough; her body temperature regulation kicking in again. It had felt nice to cuddle up to someone (not really cuddling. Aside from kicking him, they didn't touch. But she kept close until she was warm again). When she wakes in the morning proper, she actually feels rested, refreshed, ready. The room is gloomy and Gillian suspects it could be snowing. It doesn't feel as cold as it had in the night.

Cal has his eyes closed but Gillian doesn't think he is asleep; she isn't sure he has slept much at all really. Every time she woke to turn over it seemed he was awake. Poor guy. When Gillian sits up, pushing back the covers, a little sweaty with a thick hoodie on (turns out, it's light blue), Cal's eyes come open and he looks over at her. He is still on his back, exactly like he had been when she put the light out.

"Morning," she tries, her voice scratchy and her lungs feeling tight. She gasps a little for air.

"Morning," Cal repeats easily.

Gillian goes around the bed, finger combing her hair, trying to avoid the thought that he is seeing her first thing in the morning before she is properly coherent. If she doesn't look at him, then he can't see her. She shuts the bathroom door and uses the toilet, then washes her hands and picks the sleep from her eyes. She studies herself in the mirror for a moment, realising she hasn't actually looked in a long time (maybe she was avoiding herself a bit too). She's about the same, familiar blue eyes, freckles, the lines at her eyes. She seems washed out of colour though, darker marks out under her eyes and if she tilts her head, she can see the red bloom of the chemical burns against the side of her throat, sweeping up behind her ear. The worst patch is right on the top of her shoulder. She pulls back the sweatshirt to see properly, but there isn't a lot of give, and she can only see the brown edge of the scab that has formed (she realises when she showered yesterday, that she did it absently, or in a fog, and that if she doesn't be careful, then she could end up doing some damage). At least it doesn't hurt anymore. She has something she's meant to put on it to help it heal but she's neglected to do that too.

There is a gentle knock at the door. "Just a minute," Gillian calls in response, going to answer it.

"Oh sorry. Wasn't sure you were still in here. Thought you might have gone out the other door."

Gillian opens the entrance on Cal. He's in a grey shirt and his cut off pyjama pants (they are blue and green tartan). His hair is sticking up in the back and he looks worn, for just a second. He hops awkwardly on his left foot as he turns his body back around to face the doorway, the cast resting on the ground when he stops still. He winces when he puts too much pressure on it (any pressure. Even resting it on the ground is too much pressure just yet) and Gillian thinks about protesting again that he really shouldn't be walking on it, resting on it, putting any weight on it whatsoever; it could interfere with healing. But what is the point?

"I'm done," Gillian tells him, stepping back to let him in. She has half a thought to help him, but she won't really be able to support his weight. And he does so like to remind her that she mothers too much, especially when he's frustrated. So she goes back to her room and stares at it from the door frame. A bed and breakfast. That is what the room looks like. Floral bedspread, simple furniture, art depicting landscape scenery on the walls, bright neutral tones. Gillian wonders if this _is_ someone's holiday home. Or a time share. It's weird to think this house exists just to hide people in for a few days at a time. What do the neighbours wonder?

Deciding to get dressed, and actually explore the closet a little, Gillian is dismayed at the choice of clothing; nothing fits her properly, it's all either far too big or slightly too big. And nothing is much of her usual choice. She does find some jeans that actually aren't too bad on her, then throws on another generic tee beneath a bland jersey. All the underwear looks like it's from Walmart. None of it is a good match to her body; she can feel it slipping down her hips as she walks around the bedroom (they're too big and the elastic too weak). Nothing else in the drawer appeals in the slightest and, besides, she makes up her mind to just go shopping. Not only would a little retail therapy make her feel better, but having things around her that she has actually picked out would ground her as well. Or help her feel less lost. Or something. She has been here just under twenty-four hours, and the house, the situation, the isolation, is already starting to get under her skin. There's nothing like exploring a new town, she tells herself, reasoning that an excursion will also cut down on staring at four walls. She isn't even sure where they are. Somewhere in Minnesota. What would be the harm in going out?

Cal is in the kitchen when she makes her way in, still in his pyjamas and grey t-shirt. Gillian can't be sure, but he might have been wearing those exact same clothes when she arrived yesterday. She has five grey t-shirts in the drawers in her room (five that are black. Five that are white); Cal might have a similar supply; same for the pyjama pants. "Coffee?" Cal speaks from the window where he is rinsing out mugs at the sink.

"Yeah please," Gillian agrees. She goes to the fridge for milk and notices again that it is practically bare. The essentials are there: butter, cheese, tomato ketchup, jam, milk (about a third left), other assorted condiments, and a lone carrot and apple hanging out in the vegetable drawer. She wonders if the cupboards are just as empty; she hadn't really been looking yesterday (or perhaps just couldn't remember properly). She figures she could go food shopping while she's out. She doesn't think Cal would go with her. Or that he _could_ go with her, really.

"When you're finished?" Cal prompts her from across the small space.

Gillian gives him the milk and goes to the cupboards. Yep, pretty lean. A few instant pastas that only require milk and heat, assorted tins: tuna, soup, spaghetti and peaches. A few packets of herbs. Pepper. No salt. Three different kinds of cereal; two of them opened. She wonders what Cal has been eating here alone. When she turns around, he is sipping his hot beverage, watching her over the rim; his cup has blue cats on it.

"They were stocked when I got here," Cal notes with in incline of his head; he means the cupboards.

Gillian crosses to the bench, where her cup, the matching pink felines, is waiting. Cal hasn't poured her coffee and she is grateful, because she is supposed to lay off it. The caffeine would increase her heart rate, put pressure on her lungs, and she is meant to be taking it easy as much as possible to let them heal (like Cal and his leg). She pours a little coffee, adds a lot of milk, and drinks it tasting weak and bland (she can't find sugar). Cal watches her but is silent and it is strange. The walls feel like they are closer than they actually are. Gillian looks out the large kitchen windows to avoid the gaze of her partner (and the weird panicky feeling). She doesn't know what he isn't saying, but it is starting to get on her nerves.

She suddenly feels really warm.

Gillian moves on to the dining room table and sits.

"How'd you sleep last night?" Cal starts.

"Good. Once I was warm. Thanks for sharing your body heat with me."

Cal gives her a slight smile, "It was nice to have company."

"How'd you sleep?" Gillian sips her drink, decides that is the last of it she can handle; the ceramic isn't even warm enough to impact on her fingers.

"I got a few snippets."

"You seemed pretty uncomfortable."

Cal gave a 'yeah, well' shrug.

"Is there something you can take?"

"Over the counter stuff."

"Maybe you should," Gillian suggests.

"Maybe."

"I'm sorry I kicked you," Gillian winces, remembering.

"At least I knew you were alive over there."

Gillian gives him a frown.

"Your breathing was awful."

"It was?" Gillian is surprised.

Cal gives a nod, limps to lean his elbows down on the bench, so he is bent over it. "All wheezy. I thought about waking you up. Making you sleep on a pile of pillows."

Maybe that was why she had woken up in the first place. Or, no, she was cold, that was why she had woken up. And that was probably what made her breathing sound so weird.

"I'm going to go out later. So if you could give me..."

Money. that was how it worked, wasn't it? They were given money. Or a credit card?

"The card?" Cal queries like he's confused.

Gillian's confused. What else would she be talking about? A shopping list? "Yes," she confirms.

"Oh, all right, yeah. Going out where?" He gives her a strange expression.

"Food for starters. But also clothes."

"They didn't stock your room up?"

"Yeah but nothing fits properly," she gives a distasteful expression.

"Nothing in your style?" Cal grins wryly.

Gillian finds herself giving a smile back, even though it feels like he is giving her a bit like more than a friendly ribbing. "Not exactly."

"Uh huh," Cal gives a knowing nod. He pushes himself off the bench and starts his unique little hanging off the furniture/shuffle/limp to the living room. Gillian sees one of his crutches leaning against the end of the dining table (no sign of the other one). Cal comes back, propelling himself off the edge of the doorframe, then balancing his weight on the back of a chair. "Temporary credit card," he slides the plastic down the table to where she is sitting. He also pushes a set of keys at her (house and there is a car in the garage for their use, in an emergency, the marshal's really would prefer it if they stay put. Gillian gives Cal a frown for that one. It's the way he stresses it), a cell phone and a business card (with the marshal's number on it and another cell phone number).

"That's my number," Cal informs her. Burner numbers. Only really good for an emergency (he stresses that point too). Gillian takes the card and looks at the name. Walker. She had been close.

"When you get back," he starts and pauses.

Gillian picks up the credit card (pay wave, so no pins or signatures required) and looks up at him. He seems so uneasy, and she doesn't get it at all. He doesn't ever have a problem bringing something up with her. Why now? Why now, of all the times in their lives, should he decide to hold back?

"Yeah what?" She prompts, keeping her voice obviously light, but feeling irritable.

"We should talk about what we do next."

"Isn't that predetermined?"

"But," Cal presses. "I want to know what you and I are going to do next."

Gillian pauses before speaking again, "I don't get it."

"If we're going to stick together," Cal supplies.

Gillian still doesn't get it. She gets the impression he's trying to subtly suggest something to her but she's either being too dense, or he's being too subtle. She suspects he wants to have the conversation right then and there but she needs time to think about this whole thing (and maybe figure out what he _really_ means). She hasn't had three days like he has to work it all out neatly, thinking of all the scenarios. She agrees to talk about it when she gets back. Then she leaves the room to find appropriate shoes. She might have hurried out of there a little bit.

What does he mean _if_ they were going to stick together? Of course they would stick together. Unless he didn't want to stick together? Gillian hasn't considered that. Not that she has considered much of anything. She had only been focussing on getting out of the hospital. She hasn't put much thought into 'what next' and 'how does Cal feel about all of this?' Or even 'what is Cal doing right now?'

Cal is on the couch when Gillian goes to leave. From the doorway of the living room she asks if he wants anything. He says no, but keeps his attention on the TV. Gillian finds her coat from yesterday, and tugs it on roughly. She also doesn't get why he is all of a sudden acting like he is mad at her. Like this is all her fault? Far from it. Maybe it is a really good idea to get outside and get some fresh air; get some space. Twenty four hours together and they are already under each other's skin (how are they even going to cope with longer?) Gillian almost suggests Cal call her if he thinks of something he does want, but thinks better of it. A little space, a little shopping, a little exploring: that sounds good right now.

As soon as she opens the door the wall of cold air strikes her hard. Her face tingles and she gasps the chill into her lungs; they start to ache straight away. But she takes slow breaths, tries to keep them shallow, without hyperventilating, so the cold doesn't seep all the way through her and cause pain; she has never been so conscious of the way she breathes before.

There's a little snow along the path to the gate (but it's not snowing like she thought). She could probably drive, seeing as there is a car key on the set Cal gave her, but she's not sure of the way, not sure of the road conditions; there could be ice. She's not entirely sure of her capability to drive. She did only just get out of the hospital yesterday. Even now, she's not entirely sure of her capability to walk. She's a few meters from the house and it feels like she can't get enough air. Not only that, but she didn't ask in which direction there were shops, or how far away they were, and she despises him for a moment, for seeming to have all the answers. He had the phone numbers, the credit card, the car keys; he knew which town they were in, which state; all the information. What did he want to talk to her about when he already seems to have it all worked out anyway?

Gillian goes west, and two houses down there is a T-intersection. And on the street sign is a little tag that additionally informs her of a shopping complex. Didn't need Cal after all. _And_, her lungs seemed to have adjusted to the cold and the mild exercise, because they are doing just fine. After she gets walking a bit more, she warms up and her lungs seem to ease further. She makes it to the shopping complex, on foot, in fifteen minutes. Complex is an optimistic descriptive term. She had been thinking a mall, what she gets is a main street. But it will do.

As she walks down what feels like the main street of Kasson, Gillian does find a little mall. More like a group of shops under a collective roof. She starts there, wanders through a pharmacy, warms up a little more (heating helps); finds a place that will cut her hair for ten dollars without an appointment. She doesn't go into it much, just tells the woman with the scissors she had been in an accident; that was why her hair was singed on one side. The woman seems too embarrassed to make much more conversation. She does a good job of sorting out the damage and Gillian leaves feeling lighter, even with her hair just a few inches shorter (and at least even). She explores further, gets friendly smiles and a few hellos, then moves on to the Walmart-style 'we've got everything' store in the back of the complex. She half suspects this is where her current wardrobe came from. But she looks, hunts around, goes through all the racks, and finds another cuter pair of jeans, a few tops that aren't hideous, a cute jumper that actually fits and at least two bras that should tide her over until they get moved again (and fingers crossed, get a bigger city with some proper shopping complexes).

Kasson feels like a ski town; lots of weatherproof jackets and pants, ski boots, woollen hats and accessories. Gillian eyes up a coffee shop, knowing the smell and warmth instinctively, but declining; it wouldn't be half as nice if she couldn't drink coffee, and leisurely linger, and felt guilty for being away from Cal for too long.

She goes to get food next, enough for a few basic meals (she has no idea how long they are going to stay for). She also gets Cal teabags, because she can't remember if she had seen any in the cupboard. She also gets something sweet (which reminds her to get sugar). What stops her from going entirely crazy and buying out the store? She has to carry it all home again. It isn't far, but she isn't exactly at her peak right now. She could get a cab, but she only has the credit card. And while the shop assistants don't give her a second glance as she waves to pay, she doesn't know what the limit on the card is, and is half afraid she's going to be asked for ID. Of which she has absolutely none. Besides, she doesn't actually know the address of the house they're staying in, doesn't remember the street, didn't pay attention to the numbers. She can find her way back easily enough, but she can't explain it to someone else. It feels like the less interaction she has with the locals the better.

When Gillian steps out of the mall, she discovers Kasson really _is_ like a ski town: it's snowing. She's not equipped for snow at all. Doesn't have the right shoes, the right clothes, a proper waterproof jacket or even a hat and scarf. She thinks about going to buy some now, thinks better of the amount she's already spent (and what she's laden down with) and decides that the house isn't that far away and she can make it if she just puts her head down and goes for it.

She gets back to the house without getting lost, but her shoes are drenched and so are her jeans, almost the entire front side. The snow must have been coming down for a while, because there are drifts forming that she has to stomp through to cross the road. By the time she gets back to the house, there's a few feet on the ground, but no more falling from the sky. She says hi to Cal, who is still on the couch. He gives her a grunt, and doesn't get up to help, or even bother offering to. Gillian takes the food to the kitchen, leaving it on the bench for now, then goes to her room and kicks off her wet shoes. She shimmies out of the rest of her wet clothes, cuts the tags off one of the new bras she bought (one that actually fits her properly) and puts it on straight away. She puts on her other new clothes as well (because they're at least dry and are literally in her hands), then goes back to the kitchen to put the food away. Cal is still on the couch, and it's nice to not be stalked around the house by him, she thinks, especially because he doesn't seem to be in a good mood today. There is a knock at the door and it startles Gillian hard, makes her heart beat roughly.

"Gill?" Cal's voice comes from the other room. Gillian puts a bag of rice down on the shelf and heads for the front door. But once she gets there she stops. She looks over at Cal, in the living room, who is struggling to a sitting position.

"Is it?" Gillian starts and Cal shakes his head 'no'.

"They let themselves in."

So it's not the marshals. Which means Gillian doesn't know who it is. She peeks through the peephole and definitely does not recognise the man on the other side. He stands her height, light brown hair, a shovel in his hand. A broad, black, show shovel. She thinks he could be harmless. She knows a snow shovel makes a good weapon. Cal is hobbling towards her, limping off furniture and wincing on his leg, when Gillian decides to just go ahead and answer the door, sliding back the deadbolt.

The man smiles; all American, perfect teeth. "Hi. I'm Aaron. I live next door. I was out shovelling my walk this morning and noticed you haven't done yours," he turns toward the offending path (which is barely even a foot deep, if that). "I thought I'd come over to volunteer."

Gillian places his accent as Canadian, thinks he's odd, seeing as it _just_ finished snowing, feels a little paranoid, like he was watching from his windows or something, and half regrets her decision to open the door instead of pretending they weren't home. Cal reaches her and grabs at her shoulder to balance himself.

"I wasn't sure you had the right equipment," Aaron gives another smile, an easy laugh; all Canadian perfect teeth then.

"It's not exactly my forte," Gillian explains blandly, sells the lie poorly. Not really a lie. But there's more to it than just that. But she can't read anything sinister in this other man, and Cal doesn't immediately flip out and slam the door shut either, so she goes with neighbourly. She figures that's why Aaron is here. "I'm Gillian," she introduces herself and Aaron politely extends a hand to shake.

"Cal," he introduces himself, giving the fingers of his broken right hand a wave to indicate he's not going to shake. There's a good chance he wouldn't have done so even if his arm wasn't broken, just to be ill-mannered.

"Looks like something got the better of you," Aaron notes jovially.

"Skis," Cal grumps.

Aaron gives an 'ah gotcha' kind of expression.

"It would be really kind of you to shovel the snow," Gillian brings them back to the point, sensing Cal is going to say something to ruin the neighbourly mood; she's got a sixth sense about it now. "You don't think it will snow again?"

"Not today. Maybe tonight though, and I can always come back tomorrow," Aaron gives another winning smile and turns. "I'll get to it."

Gillian reluctantly shuts the door on him, feeling impolite and unsure.

"Why would someone volunteer to shovel the snow?" Cal asks Gillian loudly.

She wants to shush him; the door is not _that_ thick. "To be polite?" She suggests, shrugging off his hand carefully and going back to the kitchen. Cal limps after her until he can reach a dining room chair, then uses that to propel himself to the breakfast bar and a stool; he doesn't sit though.

"Bit weird though," Cal presses.

"I'm just glad someone's going to do it."

Cal gives her a distasteful expression. "Cos I'm not?"

"I didn't plan on it either," Gillian responds lightly, going back to the last of her groceries. Pretty sure she's not up for that kind of physical exertion.

"So you don't think there's anything suspicious about him?"

Gillian turns to him. "Do you think there is?"

Cal gives a noncommittal shrug. "Seemed alright," he mumbles, looking at the bench top. Which means he doesn't, because if he did, he wouldn't be asking for her opinion, he'd be on the phone with the marshals.

Gillian goes back to unpacking the food, thinking over Aaron's face; there didn't seem to be anything hidden in there, nothing sinister that she saw. But then again, she might not be at the top of her game right now. The thought disturbs her, sends an anxious stammer to her heart; she should be more careful.

"So you're going with Gillian then?"

She turns to him again, surprised, unsure; what is he talking about?

"Didn't want to pick something different?" Cal goes on.

Gillian gives him a frown.

"Names. Picking new names. Identities."

He sounds too aggressive and it makes Gillian want to equally leave the house again or deck him; and that response surprises her more. She settles for a little of both: passively aggressively ignoring him for a moment. She puts the hot water on to boil, starting to get mugs to make cocoa (or tea). "You're going to stick with Cal then?" She pushes back.

Cal's face clouds and he sits on the stool he was leaning on, moving so comically awkwardly that Gillian almost laughs and goes to help him. He's clumsy and off balance with all that plaster; she feels a little bad for him again. He's been trapped inside for days. Almost half the week. And he's not sleeping well; she witnessed that one first hand. She starts to realise he's probably been climbing out of his skin, stuck inside, stuck in plaster, stuck in this new reality. And really, aside from the marshals calling in to issue instruction, he hasn't had any contact with anyone, apart from her. Not even his daughter. Who he still doesn't know is safe or not. So he's being grumpy. So he's taking it out on her. She could be a better friend.

"Want a hot chocolate?" She asks him gently.

"No."

"Ok."

Quietly, Gillian goes about making one for Aaron and herself (she wonders about tea for Cal, then leaves it). She can see the other man through the windows of the dining room, easily making short work of the pathway (it hasn't frozen yet). She thinks about Cal going out to shovel the walk; can't imagine it. She wonders if it's something he would normally have done at home, or whether he made it Emily's job (probably). The wetness of the snow is his kryptonite right now.

She also thinks she should have been a bit more wary of a stranger, but that's not on her mind yet. She's still adjusting to being out of the hospital, feeling every tightening of her lungs and learning to not be afraid of it; she's already been through the worse and is getting better with every moment. Besides, she figures it's too new for the bad guy to have figured out where they are, though it would have been easy enough to find out _who_ they were (are?). She starts thinking about the Lightman Group, about Loker and Torres and their employees; is everyone there safe? Which brings her back to Emily, and Cal, who is sitting quietly and glumly at the kitchen counter, picking at something on his thumb. He looks older and worn and she wonders now how she is going to cheer him up, or at least, like she was thinking before, just being a better friend (she half suspects he's hanging around waiting for her to do that and it wouldn't be the first time he's relied on her to make it better for him. It wouldn't be the first time she has).

As she stirs the mugs of hot water, milk and chocolate (and sugar), she remembers the relief she felt in the way he hugged her when she first came through the door, the first time they had seen each other in three days, since the explosion (where they could have died. She could have. The flames had reached her skin). And she remembers too, that she was almost as relieved as he had been, because she wasn't alone anymore.

New plan for this afternoon: get rid of Aaron, take care of Cal.

Gillian picks up both mugs, moves around the kitchen bench and to the front door. There's a convenient little table for her to rest one of the cups on while she twists the door handle, then expertly hooks the door to swing closed behind her after she's passed through it. She didn't think to put a jacket on. And it's cold out there. Aaron has seriously made short work of the walk; he's at the boundary already. Gillian can walk down the path easily and Aaron turns to give her a smile as she approaches. "Wow thank you," Gillian speaks first.

Aaron straightens up, his breath puffing mist into the cool air. It hangs for a moment before blending into the atmosphere. "Thank _you_," he echoes taking a mug.

"Hot chocolate," Gillian supplies.

Aaron takes a sip, makes the appropriate noises of appreciation. "This is great. I don't get this kind of attention for shovelling our walk." He smiles again and it's flirtatious.

Gillian gives a tight smile, isn't sure how to play it, thinks about Cal, and lets her eyes wander over to the garage.

"Do you want me to do the drive?"

"Oh no," Gillian brings her attention back to the other man, her mug up against her chest to keep her warm; and act as a barrier. "We're not going anywhere."

"Must have been a hell of a ski accident."

Gillian honestly has to take a second to remember what he's talking about. "Yeah we came up for vacation," she lies.

"And now vacation ruined," Aaron finishes.

"I don't know. Provides quality time," Gillian responds without thinking but with a slight smile. She is totally implying Cal is her husband or partner. Well, he _is_ her partner, technically. Or maybe it's 'was' now. She doesn't know. She's starting to get why he wants to talk.

"Yeah that is really nice. It's probably the only good thing about being snowed in," Aaron backs off.

He's right. They have a perfect opportunity to spend time with each other, to talk about the explosion, to talk about what they know, where they stand, what is going to happen next etc and Gillian has been totally avoiding it. And she realises now that Cal is waiting to have the conversation he was probably ready to get to several days ago; is even waiting patiently for her (not entirely novel; sometimes he does respect her call for boundaries). She's being slow. She's going to put that down to the damage the chemical inhalation has done to her head.

Aaron finishes his drink and hands the mug back. He tells her he'll finish the last bit of shovelling. Gillian thanks him again, emphasises it was really very kind of him. He says he might see her around. Gillian smiles politely, doesn't commit either way; she honestly doesn't know if she will.

When Gillian gets back inside, she notices the warmth; it juxtaposes sharply with the iciness from outside. Even more so than when she had gone out earlier. Her lungs are tight and uncomfortable, protesting against everything she's done that morning. Enough to make her find her purse and suck down the beta-adrenergic agonists she has been given to treat her lungs. The medication isn't so far removed from that given to asthma suffers, even delivered in the same way: with an inhaler; designed to open her airways and make breathing easier. The effects of the chemical damage are meant to wear off. She hopes it will be sooner rather than later but she wasn't given a solid timeline for recovery (but she is grateful she's expected to make a full recovery. She thinks she might be lucky).

She tucks the inhaler into her jeans pocket and takes the dirty mugs to the sink in the kitchen. She finds a packet of assorted chocolates open on the counter, about three quarters' empty; there is a little mouse in the house. Through the dining room window Gillian can see Aaron starting to walk away so she goes down the hall to the larger bedroom. Cal is stretched out on the bed, a plastic container in his left hand; he is chewing. Rat found. But he doesn't seem to notice her in the doorway so she watches him for a moment, then says hello.

"Hey," he responds, turning his attention to the container again, digging with his casted right hand.

Gillian approaches. "Those were meant to be dessert."

"And now they're dinner," Cal counters lightly. He stretches the container out towards her and gives it a shake, enticing her. Like she needs it.

Gillian dips in and helps herself. Cal shifts his right leg over, then the left; he makes space for her on the mattress, so she sits. "What do you want for dessert then?"

"Should probably eat some vegetables or something. It's been a while."

"And you need lots of nutrients to grow big and strong."

"Did you have fun playing with the neighbour?"

Gillian is surprised by the question, the change in subject, and his tone. She takes a moment to think of her response. Then finds she doesn't have one. She can't be bothered appeasing him, teasing him, or taking him seriously. Instead, she helps herself to another chocolate and changes the subject herself. "Have you heard about Emily?"

Cal's eyes cut sharply to hers. "Nope."

"I'm sure she's fine."

"How can you be sure?"

"I can't imagine anyone could have gotten to her before the marshals did."

"They said they couldn't find her."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"It means they can't find her."

"It doesn't mean anything _bad_," Gillian finishes pointedly. "She could be holed up somewhere studying. Or with a guy."

Cal frowns harshly. "Now why would you say that?"

Gillian gives a slight laugh.

"It's not funny."

"It is," she smiles back.

"It's not," Cal grumps.

"Do you trust them to find her?"

Cal's expression goes wary and he doesn't verbally respond, but it's answer enough. Gillian's jovialness drops and the worry he's obviously feeling paws at her chest; she gets it now. She's not taking it seriously enough, and he's stressing out. And she would be too, if she were in his position, and she hadn't been able to talk to her daughter for nearly a week.

"Green Thai curry for dinner? With rice? And lots of baby spinach? Lots of extra calcium?"

"Sounds like you're cooking."

"I am. Cheating with a 'just add' packet but..."

"Then I'm in."

Gillian reaches for another chocolate. Cal lets the container balance on his stomach and scratches at his head. Gillian realises the bruise over his eye doesn't seem as bad as it had yesterday; more yellow now, less purple (maybe it looks different in a different light?)

"When was the last time you had a shower?"

Cal frowns. "You saying I need one?"

"No."

Maybe. (He did make a point of sniffing himself yesterday.)

"I was going to offer to help."

"You gonna get in and wash my back?" Cal gives her a lewd grin.

"Uh, no, my involvement stops at the bathroom door. I was going to suggest wrapping your casts in, like, a million plastic bags."

"Ugh," Cal groans. "I can't be bothered. Basin of hot water is enough."

"Ok."

"Though my hair is doing my head in."

"You want to wash your hair?"

"Not sure how to manage it," Cal raises his right hand, gives a now familiar wiggle of his fingers.

"I'm offering to help," Gillian reminds him patiently.

"Well," Cal grumbles. He makes a show of digging around for another chocolate. "Yeah that would be good," he mumbles.

Gillian feels like pressing the issue, making him ask her nicely, but like he said before: she 'couldn't be bothered'. "Ok let me know when," she casually suggests instead. That at least leaves the ball in his court. "I suppose you're not hungry now."

"Nope," Cal admits. "Tell me a story, what's it like out there in the big wide world?"

"Small town America," Gillian shrugs.

"Don't down play it for my sake."

"I didn't really see much of it. I bought some clothes and food and that was it."

Cal's eyes wander away as he considers what she has said. "You really think Emily's all right?"

"Yes."

Cal focuses on getting another chocolate. "It's been a week since we talked last. She could be trying to call me."

"And she will figure from your lack of response that something's up."

Cal looks up at her sharply. "You don't think she would... go home or something like that? Try and find me?"

"She would call me, or the office first. And Ria would have told her what happened."

"So she'll think I'm dead," Cal states.

Shit.

Gillian hasn't thought of that. They'd both be dead.

Cal curses softly under his breath and looks away. "If I call her..."

"Maybe you _should_ call her," Gillian starts to come around. She is actually impressed he has held off this long. Especially since it is his daughter they are talking about.

Cal looks over at her again. "What about..."

"The marshals?"

"For a start."

"They can't kick us out of the program."

"I'm glad you're confident about that," Cal shoots back, but something has clouded his eyes and Gillian belatedly recognises it as fear. She hardly ever sees fear on Cal's face and now that she does, she feels a quiver of fear in her own stomach.


	4. Chapter 4

"Come on," Gillian coaxes, taking the container of chocolates from Cal's reach (there aren't many left). "Let's wash your hair," she suggests, standing from the bed. She's not entirely sure of the things that make Cal feel better (he tends to deal with things in odd rituals she's not always privy to) but she knows that feeling clean helps refresh her, and it sometimes can be a good distraction. Cal's been trapped inside for half a week. She's starting to suspect he's not just in a funny mood, but is actually leaning towards glum. She's not surprised as to why, but there's not much she can do about it, except maybe a few small things she can do to help: wash his hair, work out something to do about Emily. Sometimes being a good friend is just about being there.

Cal looks over at her from his pillow. He looks slumped and tired and like he wants to protest but can't be bothered to. He just looks completely unimpressed. She holds out her hand to him and his face is completely neutral for a second, before he reaches out with his left hand to take it. He just about pulls her into his lap and chuckles a little gleefully as he overpowers her (yeah she gets it, just because he's crippled doesn't mean he's still not stronger than her). One of the crutches is leaning against the bedside table and Gillian takes it up, pointedly giving it to him, which he takes wordlessly and adjusts under his bad arm so he can sort of swing and hop across the room to the bathroom door (also using the furniture when he can reach it). Gillian puts the chocolates on top of the tall boy against the wall and pulls open the top drawer. "Oi," Cal protests at the door frame. "Those are my delicates."

Gillian feels her cheeks warm a little. "Pyjamas?" She queries.

"Next one down," Cal tells her. "Give me a minute," he requests and hangs on to the bathroom doorframe to help himself through it, then closes the portal behind him.

The letter sits on top of the dresser. It isn't in an envelope, just folded up on itself into thirds. But even as Gillian spots it, even with a glance, she can see it is from a hospital, and it's addressed to Cal (she figures the address given is this one, seeing as she doesn't recognise it). Curiosity spikes despite her refusal to act on it (it's _private_). Gillian pulls open the right drawer this time and finds another pair of tartan print pyjama pants (red and blue, for a change). There's a loud bang from the bathroom and she freezes, heart beating a little quicker, but Cal doesn't start yelling (she does hear a grumble). She goes to the door, hesitates outside it; wonders if she should knock.

The bang sounded like him dropping something and not someone trying to break in (or him falling down), but she needs to be sure. She calls out, asks if he's alright. He says he's fine and she feels silly and over protective and stepping over the line of friendship; she goes back to the pyjamas. She takes them to the kitchen to cut the right pant leg off (guessing the amount), then heads back down the hall to the bedroom, still waiting on Cal to call her in (she didn't hear any yelling from the kitchen).

The letter is still sitting there waiting. Gillian lifts the top fold and can see it is the information about his injuries. She shouldn't. It's way, way, way over the mark to read his mail. She walks to the windows, looks out; curiosity gets the better of her. She wants to know the details and Cal is so blasé about them he wouldn't tell her himself. She's still trying to piece together what happened last week. She can rationalise it all she likes, the truth is: she's being nosey. He moves so slowly, it isn't like she wouldn't be able to put the letter back how she'd found it. She goes back to the tall boy and picks up the paper.

Closed, incomplete fracture to the ulna of the right forearm. Closed, incomplete tibia...

"Gillian?!"

She jumps, hurriedly puts the letter back how it was originally, feeling completely busted, and quickly crosses the room. "Yeah?" She leans in against the bathroom door, listening, and taps on it lightly. Cal calls for her to come in. He's sitting on the edge of the bath, still hanging on to the one crutch with his broken arm, his left gripping the edge of the plastic he's sitting on. He looks at her from across the small space, a little defeated edge to his posture but also defiance in his eyes.

"Let's do it then," he grumps, like this is all her idea and a unique kind of torture, but she doesn't take him seriously.

"Ready?" She prompts coming in. She tosses the pyjamas at him and he plucks them from the air just before they hit his face. He raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything about them, putting them to the side for later.

"Where do you want me?"

Gillian has done this before with an invalid. Alec broke his leg once and she used to wash his hair over the bath because it was easier than trying to manoeuvre plastic and water to get him into the shower cubicle. But it had been easier then because their shower had a detachable nozzle. So making him lean over the bath while she washed his hair was not as much of a big deal as this was going to be. Once he got the hang of it, he did it himself; he only had a broken leg. A lot of things were easier with just a broken leg. Gillian doesn't know how Cal's going to sneak out to make clandestine phone calls (can't use their burner phones) if he can barely move around the house, let alone outside of it. She's not in much of a position for a fight herself right now, but Cal is definitely in no condition to run.

"On the floor," Gillian decides. She is still going to make him lean over the bath, but backwards, like at a hairdressers. She directs Cal to sit so he is resting against the edge of the plastic (which he does so with a few winces), while she gets more towels off the shelves; she absently thinks they should do some laundry at some point. She double folds one towel and lays it over Cal's broken arm, then uses another to cushion his neck, another to wrap around his throat so it cloaks over his chest; a spare one for her. She has to go back to the kitchen for a mug, to use to cup the water.

When she gets back to the bathroom, Cal has stolen her towel. "My ass was killing me," he explains to her slight frown. Gillian gets the last towel from the shelf (now they really do need to do laundry). She gives him the mug to hold while she leans over and turns the taps in the bath, adjusts the heat and retrieves the shampoo from the shower in the corner.

She starts with wetting his hair, curling her hand around his forehead and ears to try and protect them from flooding as much as possible. He can't exactly help her out with leaning right back, but he does try to angle his head as much as he can. She takes her time, guiding the water with her fingers in the places that are vulnerable to gravity, so she doesn't drench him completely. "Thanks for this," Cal speaks softly.

"You're welcome." It must have been at least a week since he had actually wet his head; it would have driven her insane (it has, at least, been four days. And that is long enough). "What did you do for three days here by yourself?" Gillian asks him.

"Counted the hours."

Gillian sets the cup in the bottom of the tub and squirts out a small amount of shampoo into her palm.

"Not easy to pace at the moment."

Gillian smiles and presses her hand against the crown of his head.

"Tried writing some stuff down, but a bit of a waste of time."

"How come?" Gillian starts making circles to lather the soap. His hair is thin and longer than it's been in a while. With it wet, it looks darker and she's not sure she's seen his face from this angle (or maybe even this close...); his eyes flicker over the wall opposite. It suddenly strikes her that this is really intimate.

"Couldn't read my own writing," Cal gives a slight chuckle.

Oh right yeah, because his writing hand is in a cast.

Gillian gets her other hand involved in soaping up his head, feels the strain of the muscles in her back as she leans over him to reach properly; awkward angle. She tries not to press against him, is too self conscious of how much of their bodies are in contact. Cal turns towards her a little, resting his cheek (it's rough with stubble, practically a beard; he obviously hasn't been shaving at all) against her forearm for a second. He looks up at her and she can feel his eyes. She meets them, gives him a slight upturn of her lip, but goes back to concentrating on what she is doing. "What were you writing?" She encourages. Keep talking; distraction.

"Trying to remember what I could of the investigation before..."

Gillian rinses her hands off under the running water and picks up the mug again; plunges onwards. "Do you remember much of it?"

"Some. Could do with a second opinion."

Gillian starts rinsing out the soap. "We could try again after dinner if you want." She says it far too casually but Cal doesn't call her the anxiety in her tone.

"So long as you take notes."

Gillian smiles, her eyes flickering down to his. He looks up and met hers again. Concentration lost, water dribbles into the corner of his eye. He squeezes it shut tightly, and winces. "Sorry," Gillian apologises, bringing up her spare towel to carefully wipe it away.

Cal blinks a few times, his left hand rubbing at his eye and blinking some more. "It's all right," he tells her, seemingly not worse for wear. "Carry on."

Gillian switches out the mug for more shampoo (it smells like peaches and vanilla even though the bottle says its pear and almond. Go figure) and works in silence for a while. She scrubs her fingernails against his scalp, around the back of his head and makes sure she gets his sideburns; covers every inch to get all the dirt. Cal's eyes close, so she keeps going for a minute longer. "That feels really good," he sighs.

Gillian suddenly feels warm. She rinses his hair out again, then concentrates on spreading conditioner evenly through his short strands.

"Wanna get lunch after this?" Cal asks.

"You offering to make something?" Gillian asks lightly, while implying that she highly doubts it.

Cal snickers.

"Sure. I'm nearly finished," Gillian goes on, while she massages his skull again.

"I wasn't suggesting you feed me," he says lightly. "But I am getting hungry."

"All that chocolate didn't do it for you?" Gillian rinses the conditioner off her hands and turns the tap off.

"Didn't seem to touch the sides."

Gillian sits back on her ankles, the aching easing out of her back and thighs.

"Is that it?" Cal looks over at her, straightening up a little.

"Not yet. I'll rinse the conditioner out in a minute."

"Will you bring me gossip magazines to tide me over?"

"I don't have any, but I could scrounge up a book for you?"

Cal gives a slight smile but it doesn't seem as if his heart is much into teasing her. They sit quietly for a split second before Gillian's talking again; she doesn't know if it's that she can't stand the silence, or whether this is on her mind and she wants to get it out; Cal is an attentive audience, and he's not going anywhere.

"The Group would have all our case notes."

Cal's eyes were looking around the room, but they focus back on her and he's silent a moment longer. "We can't get those."

Gillian supposes they can't, but she still queries him on it.

"Well, can't remotely log in. If someone's monitoring the system they'll pick up the log on immediately."

Gillian nods, agreeing; far too obvious. "Even if we used a public computer," she muses.

"But," Cal starts and pauses. It's probably for dramatic effect but Gillian is listening thoughtfully by now. This already feels much more natural for them; thinking, planning, conspiring. This is what they did for a living; it was, at least, familiar. "It'd take a lot more effort to investigate an email."

Gillian waits for him to flesh out the idea, because she's not quite sure she understands where he's going. Emails could be traced too. She might not have witnessed too much, but it's pretty obvious who the marshal's investigation is centring around based on the questions they asked. All about Jerome Willis. Head of the FBI. So she gets the need for secrecy (and security). They're not dealing with a mobster who probably doesn't have the know-how or technology to indulge in extensive internet searches. But the head of the FBI does. And he has access to a whole bunch of other resources too.

"Would have to create a new account. Using a public domain, on a public computer."

Gillian thinks some more but isn't sure she sees much of a problem with that. "How will they know it's from us?" She means Loker and Torres but Cal already knows this without her having to say.

"They should bloody well know how to read between the lines by now."

Fair point.

"Then we should think about what we want to say," Gillian muses.

"One shot at it?"

"I think that would be wiser?"

"Probably," Cal agrees.

They're silent for a moment, stealing glances, thinking. There would have to be more to work out, but so far, it seems like an ok plan.

"You cut your hair."

Gillian meets his eyes, a hand raising absently to her shorter strands. "Yes," she confirms.

Cal watches her a moment, a beat, before saying: "I like it short."

"Thanks," Gillian sits up again, turning on the taps. She starts to rinse Cal's hair out carefully and he closes his eyes while she works. "If we're going to contact the Group, then you should definitely call Emily."

Cal's eyes open to look at the ceiling, but not at her. "Could probably manage one call on the burner phone and then toss it."

"Mm," Gillian agrees. Or muses. She thinks about other options, possibly better options. If Cal made the call, she would have to get rid of the phone. And that wouldn't be easy in small town Kasson. It would be better to get to Rochester, the nearest biggest city. Or maybe just toss it out the window of the bus on the way. But if Cal made the call from the house it could be traced back to that location (if the software used was good enough) and she wasn't sure they could take that risk. Other people used this house as a safe haven. They wouldn't just be compromising themselves, they'd be compromising the whole witness protection program.

"You're thinking very thoroughly," Cal notes and Gillian realises she's been scraping her fingers over the same spot on his head. She goes back to her work, paying attention this time.

"Pay phone," Gillian blurts.

Cal looks back to her. "What?"

"It's harder to trace an anonymous call from a pay phone. Even if they trace it back to Kasson, they would have a harder time trying to find either of us specifically. No one here knows our names."

"Cept Aaron."

Gillian ignores that (still not sure what he means by it). "It would give us a couple of day's grace."

"But how are we going to know if someone suddenly arrives in town looking for us? Not like we've made a lot of acquaintances that would tip us off."

"Yeah," Gillian agrees, thinking she might be done with his hair and she's now just touching for the sake of it.

Cal studies her for a moment. "Would be even harder if the call was traced to Rochester."

Gillian looks over at him, smoothing her fingers against his forehead as she trickles another cupful of water. "Ok, so we go to Rochester."

He gives her a slightly incredulous expression. "Are you serious?"

"Yes," Gillian stops playing with his hair. The sound of gushing water overwhelms the room.

Cal blinks. "All right."

"Ok," Gillian agrees, finding her heart beating awkwardly. She is suggesting they do something potentially dangerous or, at least, stupid. Not just for them, but for Emily too. "Should we wait for the marshals to find her?" She tries.

"They seem to be doing such a bang up job of it."

Gillian leans over the bath to turn the taps off again. She dries her hands on the towel she has kept for herself, then rubs it over Cal's wet hair. "If she hears some unknown men are looking for her, she might stay away from her dorm." Gillian sits back and looks at her partner.

Cal's expression is suspicious. "Look at you, speculating with no evidence."

Gillian throws the towel in her hands into his face, then whips the towel off his cast before he can react, so she can put it away. She gets to her feet so she's out of reach of retaliation. "I'm just... I'd like to know where she is too," she justifies. She refolds the towel and puts it up to dry.

"I wasn't complaining," Cal responds from the floor. He takes the towel from his neck and tosses it to Gillian. She unfolds that one as well, shakes it out, and hooks it at the top of the shelving unit so it is open and will dry. "Nice to have my partner back."

With her back still to him, Gillian ignores the jibe (or compliment?) and fusses with the towel for a second. The tone he used doesn't sound like a dig, but the words do cut her a little bit; she has been nothing if not on Cal's side, always. He might have had three days by himself to think, but she had three days merely trying to survive. Sorry if she wasn't completely on to it as soon as she got there.

She turns to find him struggling to get to his feet again. It's like watching a turtle trapped on its back. Cal can't bend his right leg at all, so he has turned over to his front and is trying to get leverage off the bath with one good leg and one good arm. He seems to lose the battle for a while, then hangs off the bath and the vanity and pulls himself awkwardly to his feet. As much as Gillian wants to laugh at how funny he looks, she doesn't have the heart. Poor guy. What a nightmare.

Cal straightens up, breathing heavily. Gillian goes to get the wet towel she had used on his hair from the floor. "I'll make lunch then," she says, hooking the towel around his neck (and suppressing an irresistible urge to kiss him). She goes back to the kitchen, and starts pulling condiments from the cupboards and fridge to make sandwiches (steadfastly ignoring the bit where she wanted to kiss him). Not exactly sandwich weather but she has just bought fresh bread and it will do (could have just been a kiss on the cheek or something else that could be construed as friendly). She's already buttering when she hears Cal coming down the hall (banishes the thoughts of kissing again). He's leaning on it as he walks (and uses one of his crutches!) so she hears him easily. He seems exhausted when he hauls himself onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar (kissing thoughts gone).

"Will you go this afternoon?"

"Go where?"  
"To call Em."

"Yes," Gillian agrees immediately. Her heart beats in that awkward way again, betraying her confidence. Yes, she probably shouldn't; she had agreed to not make contact with anyone from her old life. But this is Cal. This is Emily. She couldn't not. "Wait, you're going to come with me right?"

Cal seems to hang his head a little, but he does meet her eye. "I don't think I can."

"Sure you can."

"I really don't think I can Gill."

She wants to press it, she wants to point out that it is _his_ daughter, but given the fact that he is saying he can't go, well she takes that seriously; when it comes to Emily, it has to take quite a bit to stop him. "Are you ok?" She's concerned now.

"Yeah, I'm just... Not really cracking it right now."

Gillian doesn't press. She goes back to her bread, putting aside the slices once they're spread, trying to think of a way to make it easy for him. Most of the trip would be on the bus; she's not sure how far away Rochester is, but it could be at least half an hour in a car, probably longer with public transport. But then he'd have to get off the bus and manoeuvre the streets and it is awkward enough for him to get around the house. It's implied that he's going to be absolutely useless if, _if_, they needed to run; he's a liability. Gillian can feel her heart in her throat. So now it's up to her to get a message to Emily.

"Please Gill," Cal starts but she stops him. She gets it. She tells him she'll go. She puts bread on a plate for him, moves fillings closer to him so he can assemble himself.

"Do you think...?"

"Think what?"

"What do you think the marshal's told everyone?"

Emily. The Group. Her family. She's thinking about it now; what were her parents told? Were they given an official version, or just a lot of vague answers? They would have tried to contact her by now, surely. Gillian understood even more what it would be like for Emily. For Cal, worrying about his daughter.

Cal gives a shrug, chews shrewdly.

"I just... I don't like the idea of them thinking the worse," Gillian notes glumly, picking the crust off a slice of bread.

"Which is?"

"That we're dead?"

"You think that's what the marshals told them?"

"I don't know how it works," Gillian admits.

Cal 'hms' and they sit in silence while they eat (Gillian remains standing opposite him). She's suddenly not very hungry, so she picks her sandwich apart and eats the fillings separately (lettuce, tomato and pastrami). "What do you want me to tell her?" Gillian asks when Cal finishes. She takes his plate to the sink and busies herself with packing everything away. She doesn't ask if he wants something else and he doesn't protest when she assumes.

Cal clears his throat. "Dunno. I'm safe."

It sounds a bit like a question. Gillian glances over at him but he's not expecting an answer from her. It looks like he's thinking about it. She takes butter back to the fridge, twists the bread bag and ties it, leaves it on the bench.

Cal reaches over to the side of the bench, where the landline phone sits in its cradle and there's a phone book. There's also a notepad and a cup of pens. He pulls the pad closer, takes a pen, then jots something down on the small slip of paper. "Em's number," he supplies and slides it towards her. "And her dorm, if you can't get through."

Gillian takes the paper, tucks it into the pocket of her jeans, combs back the hair from her face, feeling tense. They are taking a risk. The risk would be worth it though. She can't imagine disappearing on her daughter, can't quite comprehend what Cal is feeling right now; or what Emily is feeling if she has, indeed, tried calling her father and got not answer. Or how bewildered the young woman feels if the marshal's have found her and pulled her from school, her whole life, to relocate her with them in Kasson. If family is also at risk, they go into hiding too.

"Anything in particular you want me to tell her?" Gillian gently asks again.

"Tell her I love her," Cal looks up and meets her eyes. She sees a swirl of feeling, not entirely unfamiliar; she's seen him emotional about his daughter before.

Gillian nods, finds there's a lump in her throat, and concentrates on the bench again. Cal uses the landline to call for bus information. There's a stop a block down and there will be a bus in half an hour. Gillian finds a worried tremble in her stomach. Her hand goes to her jeans, making sure the number is still there. Once she's finished with the kitchen she goes to change, which is just an excuse to mentally prepare herself. Besides this being risky, she's also nervous about talking to Emily. Not because she hasn't done it before or because it will be a little strange (well, it will), but because she knows the young woman is going to be upset or confused and possibly angry and there will be a huge emotional onslaught aimed right at Gillian. Even though this isn't her fault. And she just got out of hospital yesterday. She thinks again about how she can get Cal to the phone himself but it all seems too hard and they're in the dark about so much right now, she's afraid that even making this phone call could completely tip the balance and result in her or Cal's death. Because she knows that people have been killed to keep the secret she and Cal now know.

That's how they discovered it in the first place.

Gillian makes sure she has the credit card (just in case), small change for the bus and the phone call, her medication inhaler, a scarf, a warm jacket and a phone in her pockets before she decides she should go walk down to meet the bus. Cal is on the couch again, staring out of the window. She watches him from the doorway again, seeing more and more, that this whole situation has had a huge impact on him, probably bigger than she wanted to see yesterday. He's too quiet, too still, and yes, there are mitigating factors (his broken leg) but it's still not quite right. She's still not sure what to do about it. It feels like he's retreating into himself. And, she supposes, she's doing the same. She doesn't push like she used to and she's also quiet. Still.

"It's snowing."

"Really?" Gillian straightens up from the doorframe and comes further into the room.

"Yeah," Cal gestures to the window opposite (he is sitting on the couch with his broken leg stretched out across the cushions and the TV on his left).

Gillian goes to the window and looks out. Yes, the snow has started up again. It looks like they've had a few inches of it in the last few hours. The fir trees in the yard are patchy, their branches heavy under the weight of frozen rain. The stretch from the house to the tree line is pristine; at least they'd know if someone has been sneaking around out there... And it always comes back to four days ago now: that house and the explosion and what has brought them to here. They are supposed to be safe, in protection, new identities and a chance to survive to testify. But what if the bad guy finds them? She could be drawing him in even closer if she goes to make that phone call.

Not if.

She _will_ go.

Cal doesn't say it aloud, but it seems to be in the air: _you don't have to go now_. But Gillian turns back to face him and announces she's going to need a hat. She goes to the hall closet and finds dark blue wool that she pulls down to her ears. Wearing all that gear inside makes her feel warm, but she knows it will be cold outside. She goes back to the living room and plants a kiss on the side of Cal's temple. "See you later," she tells him, not sure what compelled her to kiss him goodbye, but not feeling weird about it (she's forgotten the bathroom kiss compulsion). She walks away without seeing Cal's expression, she doesn't need to, to know he is probably surprised. He murmurs a 'bye' as she reaches the threshold to the hallway and she unbolts the front door, crosses the threshold and pulls it closed behind her.

It _is_ cold, and it still rushes into her face with a shock, but it's not as bad as she thought it would be. She thinks it's funny and a waste of time for Aaron to have shovelled the walk for her, because she still has to pick her way through the new snow to get to the path. Their street hasn't been swept but Gillian can hear a diesel engine in the background somewhere and assumes it's just a matter of time. By the time she's two houses down her legs are drenched and she almost thinks better of attempting to go out. What if the buses have stopped? The snow isn't that thick. It would take more than this to halt them in DC. But this is Kasson. Who knew how they operated? (And Gillian realised she didn't want to find out. She wanted to move on to the next place, get settled in as much as possible, start her new life if she was supposed to be having one. She feels restless and uncertain and wonders if Cal feels the same way in that house. Being outside, with the freedom, makes her realise she feels trapped otherwise, and she doesn't like it).

Gillian reaches the T- intersection that would take her back into town. It's already been cleared and the still falling snow is doing nothing more than keeping the ground wet now. She takes a graceful leap to the clear tarmac and starts walking down the empty street. Her jeans are wet half way up her calf and her toes feel icy (but she _has_ found some waterproof shoes, so at least her feet aren't also sodden). Now that she's walked a bit she's warmed up and doesn't feel as bad as she did when she first stepped out. There's another woman waiting at the bus stop. They make small talk about the weather (whether the snow will worsen). Then the bus rolls up and they get on. There are three other people already sitting, so she picks a seat about half way down. As the bus pulls away from the curb Gillian loosens the scarf from her neck, her skin feeling sticky and damp. She almost reaches for her phone to text Cal, like she would have done normally, but decides against it. They have an unspoken but highly implied policy of not making contact. It's like they've gone completely low tech.

The ride to Rochester does take more than thirty minutes, more like thirty-five, but eventually they're pulling into the inner city and Gillian gets off. No snow here, but she finds out the hard way that the sidewalk is icy and the wind whips between the buildings harshly. She decides to take the block, walking in large circles until she's probably gone a couple of miles but almost ends up where she started. She doesn't think it's a smart idea to make the call from the bus terminal and she might be procrastinating a little. In her stroll she has managed to warm up again and find two internet cafes that might be ok for sending an email from. She's passed half a dozen pay phones, but still walks a block in the other direction and crosses the street before stepping into one.

It's not warm in the booth, but it's sheltered from the wind and Gillian loosens her scarf again. Her stomach is squirming and her hands sweaty. She carefully takes the slip of paper out of her jeans pocket. Her inhaler clatters loudly to the ground and she bends quickly to pick it up, feeling paranoid. She looks around but she can't see anyone watching her in particular. People walk on by, not giving her much attention. Gillian tucks the inhaler back into her left pocket and holds the number in her left hand. She fishes out change from her right jeans pocket and tucks the receiver between her ear and shoulder. She slots coins into the phone, then dials out the number, and listens to herself breathing as she waits for the call to connect.

She's so tempted to hang it up. A massive pang of nerves strikes her hard. And it doesn't help that the call rings for a really long time. She's just about preparing to hang it up, or hoping voicemail will pick it up so she can leave a message, when it's answered. Suspiciously. "Hello?"

Gillian's heart stutters. "Emily? It's me."

There's a pause.

"Gillian?"

"Yes," she cuts in quickly, her heart beating rapidly now. "Listen, I can't talk long. I shouldn't even be calling."

"What's going on?!"

"I can't say too much Em," Gillian interrupts again. "Your Dad wanted me to call you to say he's ok."

"Is he there?"

"No, sweetheart, he isn't but he wanted to tell me he loves you and..."

"But what's going on?" Emily asks once more.

"It's complicated," Gillian almost sighs. She doesn't want to say it over the phone; _we're in witness protection_. That makes it more real. And she feels as though someone is listening in on this conversation. They could have wire tapped Emily's phone... bugs or traces or something. "Where are you?"

"I'm... at a friend's," Emily responds cagily.

"But you're safe?"

"Yes," Emily answers, sounding cautious now.

This is too hard. There is too much unsaid and now both of them aren't trusting the phone line to be clear.

"You're safe?" Emily speaks next.

"Yes," Gillian confirms.

"What should I do?"

Gillian listens to dead air for a second while she thinks quickly. Damn, she wishes she had forced more of an answer out of Cal. What would he want for his daughter? For her to be safe, that had to be the number one priority. And so far, the marshals were keeping them safe (if this phone call hadn't completely ruined it. Which would be Gillian's/Cal's fault, not the marshals anyway.)

What should she do?

Damn it, she doesn't know.

"Gill?"

"I'm here," she speaks up. "Your Dad would want you to be safe." Which was crap advice seeing as Emily had no idea who to be wary of. "So trust the authorities," she finishes, and hopes that Emily will know what that means. At the end of the day, an official with a badge is going to be more trust worthy than any old person in a suit claiming to be someone they weren't. Gillian wants to tip her off about the email to the Lightman Group, that Emily could get more information that way, but if someone really is listening in on the conversation, then that would just point them in the same direction.

"Tell Dad I love him," Emily says. Gillian promises she will. She doesn't promise she'll be in touch. She can't. But she wants to. Emily doesn't ask how to get in touch, doesn't ask for a number or an address and Gillian can only surmise that the young woman gets it.

They're off the grid.

After Gillian hangs up, her lungs feel tight and she's struggling slightly for air. The phone booth feels claustrophobic, and her change clattering into the tray makes her cringe. She grabs at it blindly, reaching for her throat with her other hand, trying to loosen the scarf or her collar or both. She pushes on the door to exit and falls into cold air. Wind whips into her face so harshly it brings tears to her eyes. She has to turn her head to take a breath but manages to suck in air. She's disorientated for a second and spies a low wall that guards off a small garden in front of whatever building that is. She stumbles to it, pulling at her scarf to let fresh air in against her sweaty skin. She sits heavily, focuses on trying to breathe. That's all. Just needs to breathe.

After a few seconds it starts to feel easier. Gillian puts her hands on her knees, leans forward a little, the wind at her back, and concentrates on taking air in, and then pushing it out of her body again. She wants to text Cal, tell him she talked to Emily, tell him that his daughter is ok and that she's smart. But she's scared to, still feels like someone is watching her. She needs to get out of the city, back to the safe house, back to Cal so she can pass on the message. Was there a message? She inherently knows what Emily would want to say to him.

Gillian gets to her feet, pocketing what's in her hands (paper and coins) and pulls the woollen hat down over her ears again. She tucks her chin into the scarf, adjusts it so that it's keeping the wind out now (she can feel a tickle in her throat that makes her want to cough. But if she starts now, it won't be easy to stop. She knows that from experience). She starts heading back to the bus terminal. Or at least she thinks she is, but she walks a block and doesn't recognise the buildings and she stupidly didn't pay attention to street signs. She was sure it was in this direction, and she's only been walking a block at a time, making turns, so she didn't get lost. But now she thinks she is.

She turns at the corner and tries again but she still doesn't come across the terminal. She thinks it's been twenty minutes now and she needs to get back to the safe house. The things she would normally pay attention to are slipping her mind and she doesn't like it. It was stupid to not even take a tourist map to find her way back and it's the kind of mistake she wouldn't usually make. She doesn't like it, doesn't like the way the tickle in her throat is now more of an insistent urge; she doesn't like how paranoid she feels.

A man on the street bumps her shoulder as she goes past and it makes her heart hammer. A part of her brain tells her to not be silly, to not let the situation get the better of her, to calm down and rationally find her way; she can ask for directions. But a bigger, louder, part of her brain is telling her that she's sick, that she can't get enough air, that it's too cold; she's lost and alone and there are people who are out to kill her.

Gillian thinks she remembers crossing the street at some point and steps down off the sidewalk, only to feel her leg coming out from beneath her and her centre of gravity tilt. She lands hard on the road (ass and wrist breaking her fall) and the sheer surprise of it knocks the last of the oxygen out of her lungs. She can't get a breath in and she can't seem to get her hands under her body to push up again. She's aware she's on the street (more danger from traffic) and that she's lost, and then she feels strong hands on her arms.

"Are you ok lady?" A male voice asks her and she gasps air to try and get a hold of herself. She's deposited back on the sidewalk, sitting on her ass on the cold concrete and there are legs framing around her like sentinels. Or entrapment.

"She can't breathe," someone else says. Everyone backs up a foot and a woman is kneeling near her hip. "Can you breathe honey?"

Gillian keeps gasping nothing into her lungs, they hurt, and shakes her head 'no' (amazes herself with even admitting it). She fumbles at her pocket, manages to take out the inhaler, but her fingers feel weird and disconnected. Emily's number gets caught on the breeze and flies away over her head. Gillian doesn't even have a second thought about someone finding it (it's a string of numbers, who in their right mind could possibly connect it to them? Even if someone found it, and dialled it, the chances that it would be the people they were hiding from would be miniscule).

"Here, let me help you," the woman takes the inhaler from Gillian's palm. She holds it to Gillian's mouth and pushes down on the canister and Gillian belatedly takes a breath. She gets a mouthful of chemicals that taste bitter on her tongue. The woman tries to give her a second dose but Gillian shakes her head away. "I have asthma too," the woman tells her and Gillian gives a grateful kind of expression and tries to take a normal breath. It's easier and she manages to get some air in and some out again; it feels much better already. Let the woman think its an asthma attack. Gillian's not going to explain her lungs were damaged from inhaling toxic chemicals in a meth lab fire.

"She's fine," the woman announces to the crowd. "Just an asthma attack."

"You should take her to a hospital," someone else suggests.

Gillian shakes her head again. "Thank you," she wheezes. "I'll be fine. Thank you."

The little crowd starts to disperse. "Really, thank you," Gillian tells the woman when she has her attention again.

"Will you be ok?" The woman asks. She has dark brown eyes and the peek of brown hair from beneath her pink hat.

"I will be," Gillian nods vigorously. Her ass is frozen now; can't feel it, only knows by default. And her jeans are still wet from the snow in Kasson. Her lungs burn with the cold but she is actually breathing now (short sharp breaths, but oxygen nonetheless). She feels a little more embarrassed as she gets herself under control and starts to get up. The woman jumps in to help her, grasping at Gillian's elbow and tugging.

"Where were you heading?" The woman asks politely.

Gillian just knows the woman is about to volunteer to walk her. "I was just heading for the bus home," she tries to make it casual. Not a big deal, doesn't need an escort.

The woman looks across the street. "You're not far," she notes. Gillian follows her gaze, and thank god, sees the bus terminal a few meters down on the other side. She looks back to Gillian. "Feeling better?"

Gillian nods. "Yes thank you. Much better."

Her lungs hurt like a bitch.

And so does her wrist.

And now her ass is all tingly and numb because its cold and blood is getting back into it.

"I just slipped on some ice."

Which is true.

The panic attack is something else.

"Make sure you use this," the woman presses the inhaler back into Gillian's hand. Gillian says she will. She thanks her again. Then the woman nods and they part ways. Gillian steps more carefully on the curb this time and crosses the road.


	5. Chapter 5

If Cal could pace, he would. But his leg kills him most of the day and it's worse when he tries to move around; he doesn't seem able to learn that staying still is his best option (he's also meant to be keeping his leg elevated as much as possible). He does take to the couch for half hour blocks, with his leg up on the cushion to 'rest' it but he's nervous and has too much energy and if he can't literally pace around, then he does try to move (usually just getting up to look out the window), to keep himself busy. Gillian is going on three and a half hours now and he manages distraction for not even half that time, before he ends up just standing by the front door, leaning against the frame of the door that leads into the living room. If he was smart and maybe less paranoid, he would be standing in the dining room window, so he could see her coming up the path.

It starts to get dark early and he really starts to worry. He thinks about calling the police. He thinks about confessing to the marshals. Something must have happened to her. He calculates the distance on the bus, how long it would take, what would be a reasonable amount of time for a phone call, travel time back to Kasson, walking pace from the bus stop; but he can't work out what is taking so long. He keeps going back to something bad happening, something wrong with their plan; it was by no means fool proof.

When its black inside, Cal hops to the light switch and flicks on the hall light. He puts on the outside light too, to make it easier for Gillian to see as she comes up the path; he has to believe she will be. Soon. Hopefully. He really doesn't know what he'll do if she doesn't come back. He doesn't think she's taken off, though it would be a good opportunity to do so (he doesn't want to believe that. Doesn't want to think her capable of abandoning him). He knows he'll call the marshals though, confess to their stupidity, hope she's ok. They'll find her, even if she has done a runner. But inside, he doesn't know how he'll feel. Thinking about it even now in brief little bursts until he forces himself to change the subject, makes him feel odd and uneasy; all he has is Gillian.

So when he hears a key in the lock, not only does he jump out of his skin in shock, but panic and fear and relief go through him all at once. He reaches for the door as it opens, hopping in closer and yes, its Gillian and he practically falls into her, gripping her fiercely. It takes a second for Cal to realise she's not shoving him away, but holding onto him tightly too, and they stand in the front door, with it wide open, and the cold air coming in around their ankles, for long seconds before Cal's leg starts to ache and makes him need to move again.

"God I was starting to worry," he starts to tell her even as he peels her away from him. "What took so bloody long?" He's not angry. But his tone isn't entirely jovial. Too soon for that.

"The bus," Gillian mumbles.

Cal notices the wateriness to her eyes, the red of her nose, the tiredness in her demeanour. He shuffles back, lets her into the house, shuts the door as she pulls the woollen hat from her head, her hair static and messy beneath it. He wants to call her on maybe pushing herself to do too much right now (which is his fault) but he remembers his daughter. "Did you get her?" He asks urgently, crowding in Gillian so she has to answer him; not that he thinks she wouldn't.

"Yes," she confirms. "She's fine."

More relief goes through Cal, so acute it seems to pinpoint the rightmost edge of his stomach. "Where is she?"

"Staying at a friend's."

"Which friend?'

"She didn't say," Gillian responds almost warily as she takes off her jacket and scarf.

Cal edges back a little, gives her room to breathe, doesn't notice that she's gasping a little, like she's having trouble with it. "What did she say? Did the marshals go to see her?"

"She said she's fine, she's been worried about you, doesn't know what's going on and doesn't know what to do."

"What did you tell her?"

"To stay safe."

Cal stops to study his partner for a moment. She meets his eye but she seems to be hiding something and he doesn't know what or where to begin. He's not sure what to ask next.

"She's being smart Cal. She's staying with someone she trusts," Gillian looks him right in the eye for that one and he gets it. Emily didn't know what was going on, so didn't know who to trust. He supposes it's a good thing she didn't just go off with any man in a suit. Although the marshals would have ID. Still, could never really be too sure. And if she couldn't get hold of him to confirm either way... OK good. She was safe (he supposes. He doesn't know how far of a reach Willis has. If something happened to Emily, would Cal even ever know?). And Gillian spoke to her so that was a good thing too. He trusts both of them.

Cal sighs out his relief. And he looks at Gillian again. "You look cold."

"I am," she admits softly, absently hugging her arms around her body now she has no jacket on, and they're still standing in the entranceway.

"Well." He thinks of what he can do for her now. Not much really, with his broken arm and bung leg. "How about, go have a hot shower, and I'll heat up some soup?" He can still open a tin and stir a pot.

"Sounds great," Gillian looks grateful. Or relieved. But she still seems... off.

Cal steps back further, wondering what else happened on her trip; did something spook her? He'll get it out of her later then, after they eat and she's warm once more. There's no need to interrogate her the minute she gets through the door again (she wasn't overly receptive yesterday when she was straight out of the hospital either) and for now it doesn't seem like someone's trying to shoot up the house. He really is grateful to just have her back. And that she got a message to his daughter. Gillian moves to step around him but Cal catches her arm. She stops immediately, turns back, eyebrows up in question. "Thank you," he tells her and really means it. She gives a nod and they stand for a second so the other knows that it's completely genuinely sent and received. And then Gillian's moving again and Cal goes to the kitchen.

He manages to heat up soup, but Gillian takes a really long time in the shower. He does shuffle down the hall to listen at one point, but still hears the water (and her coughing), and gives up, goes to wait on the couch, the soup on the lowest setting to keep warm. When Gillian appears in the living room half an hour later, he struggles to get up to serve their dinner. Gillian stops him, insists that she'll get it. Cal feels bad (he did offer to cook for her, sort of) but he's also physically pretty useless right now. And it feels nice to be looked after a little; he's already spent too much time living alone with Emily away at college. If he were still married, he and Zoe would have their house to themselves, would have the time for each other, could have the inclination to travel or something else; they were supposed to be enjoying being empty nesters.

So much for that.

(If he were still married to Zoe, she would be here with them right now.)

Gillian's put the soup in deep bowls, which is good, because Cal is a little awkward with adjusting his body weight and if he sits too long, his ass gets numb. Gillian settles on the couch at the other end, an elbow knocking against the toes exposed from the cast on his right leg (because he sits with it stretched out over the cushions), but it doesn't hurt. She pulls the blanket over her legs, and Cal's too by default. She's wearing the thick sky blue hoodie again and he easily gets the impression she's still cold despite the shower; she hugs her soup bowl against her chest.

"It snowing out there?" He asks casually.

"Yeah," Gillian confirms.

So that's why she _was_ cold. But it doesn't explain why she's _still_ cold.

Cal takes a spoonful of tomato soup. It's not bad, considering it's from a tin, but it's not great; there's a weird after taste. But he eats it and Gillian eats most of hers. When she's had enough he asks for the rest and she passes it over. Hands now free, she pulls the blanket up closer to her chin. Cal's pretty warm and his skin tingles beneath both casts, making them feel itchy and claustrophobic, but he wouldn't give up the semi-cuddling on the couch. Not cuddling but... sort of snuggling. Without the snuggling part. What was that called?

And she was his _friend_, not his girlfriend.

Gillian closes her eyes as Cal finishes up the last of her dinner too. He's not sure she's gone to sleep exactly, but she looks pretty content half-lying there and as much as he wants to start asking questions about her trip out into the even wider world, he doesn't want to disturb her. She did him a big favour, it's earned certain discretions. So Cal digs out the remote for the television from the back of the cushion and puts it on, taking the volume down a few notches. He surfs around for something interesting and finds the movie _What Dreams May Come_. He thinks he detects Gillian's eyes flicker open to see for a second, but when he does glance over at her, her eyes are still closed.

One of her thighs is pressed against his unbroken shin and it feels too warm and fleshy and so real. He thinks he can smell soap between them but he's not sure and he's probably just imagining it. It feels warmer under the blanket now. Even the toes of his right leg, which are usually numb with the cold and exposure, feel sweaty. And that's gross. Cal shifts his weight a little, giving his backside some relief (he's spent entirely too much time on his ass these last days). Gillian gives a little sigh and her head lolls further to the side. Cal watches her for a moment, then feels a bit like a creep, even if she doesn't say anything.

He goes back to the movie, trying to pick up the plot line, but failing. Visually, it's interesting, or at least something to keep his eyes engaged, even if his brain goes back to wandering. He thinks about his daughter and hopes she really is ok. He thinks about Gillian going to make the phone call on his behalf. He wonders how much longer they're going to be there in Minnesota, before they get moved on to their permanent homes (he doesn't want to think about it too much, so quickly moves on).

And then something else distracts him entirely. It practically rips his attention from the TV and his day dream. It sounds like someone drowning; a wet gurgling sound. It takes him half a second to identify the sound as coming from Gillian. It's the way she's breathing, like there is water in her throat. It sounds the same as it did last night when she first got there and had snuck into bed to get warm. (Ok, he invited her in.)

It's a bit like listening to nails on a chalk board. And Cal lasts half a minute before he purposefully shifts his leg that she's lying on and jostles her a bit. She closes her mouth, adjusts her head, seems to settle again. But at least that horrendous breathing has stopped. He wonders if she wheezes when she's awake too, can't say he's noticed, but thinks he might start paying a bit more attention from now on. She did him a big favour and now he owes her one.

Cal goes back to the movie; Gillian goes back to sleep. And five minutes later that hideous gurgling sound starts up again and Cal is more focussed on her than the screen. He wonders if making her sleep flat on her back would help. Wonders if she should be sitting up more. Wonders if she's too cold. He wonders how he's meant to help her, or if he can. He knows she has medication somewhere and he thinks to maybe wake her up to take it. Gillian coughs a little, settles, goes quiet again. Cal gives up on chivalrous notions of waking her with a steamy beverage to help open up her lungs (or something. He's not entirely sure what to do with the gurgling. Is it mucous in her lungs? Or something else?)

When Cal goes back to the movie for the third time, Gillian starts coughing. And it doesn't stop. She keeps going, little tickly delicate coughs at first, then they get louder and more serious and she's gasping at the end of the bouts, hardly able to catch her breath before the next one starts, and Cal starts to feel the prickle of panic. He doesn't know what to do. When she starts to sound like she's choking, he caves and leans forward, grabbing her shoulder or arm (hard to tell with the blanket covering her up) and shakes her hard. "Gill, wake up," he says firmly (lots of practice waking a sleeping daughter).

She startles into consciousness, her breath sucking in sharply. But it doesn't come out and her eyes go wide in fear. Cal is about to remind her to breathe again when the breath shudders out of her in a great wracking cough and she's pushing to sit up (pressing desperately against his broken leg) and falls against his shoulder. She coughs again and again and Cal can feel her whole body spasm with the effort. He's really starting to worry; wants to do something to help her but feels helpless. His right arm is half around her ribs (and she constantly knocks into his cast as she convulses, which makes his arm ache) and his back twinges from the awkward angle he's sitting at. But he doesn't move. With his left hand he tries to curl back the hair from around her face, let her get some fresh air, but he's uncoordinated with that hand and ends up just caressing her head and face, whatever he manages to get to.

Gillian gasps a last breath and goes quiet and still. Cal moves his left hand to rub her back softly (he can feel her spine, even through the sweatshirt; which is not a good sign). He thinks the coughing fit might be over but when Gillian pulls away (practically gulping air) he sees a little sliver of red against her bottom lip. He's bringing his right hand in before he thinks, definitely doesn't ask permission to invade her personal space. He swipes the back of a finger against her mouth and the sliver of red becomes a streak. He's surprised, recognises it as blood, and feels his face tingle. He looks to Gillian and sees she's pale, and breathless, and there's sweat against her forehead. And more importantly, she looks horrified as she looks at his shoulder.

Cal tilts his head and sees the grey t-shirt he's wearing is smattered with blood droplets. The panic turns his stomach so suddenly he feels sick.

Shit.

Gillian's hand goes to her mouth next and Cal tries to get away from her. Bloody awkward with his broken arm and leg, but while Gillian sits there dazed, he does manage to untangle himself from her and the blanket. "I'm calling an ambulance," he tells her. Because coughing up blood is seriously not good.

"No," Gillian croaks a protest but he's already hobbling to grab the phone from the kitchen. He's mostly stepping on his broken leg and sharp pain shoots up to his knee but he's determined and he's scared. Gillian follows him. He glances back at her as he dials, sees she looks the same; a bit like a zombie. "I'll be ok," she tries to tell him, but she looks ill and _is_ ill and she should just...

"I'm calling them," Call tells her, half listening to an automated message asking him to select the service he requires.

"Cal," Gillian tries again but she's so feeble it's almost comical. "An ambulance?" She's trying to play the low profile card but again, he's not listening. It's not like he can put her in the car and drive her there himself. He can barely walk, let alone handle a gas pedal (besides, he is actually under instruction from the doctor that set is leg to not drive anyway). And he's not letting her drive herself. No way.

Cal doesn't even answer her. He turns his back, answers the operator when he's prompted and explains the situation. Some of the situation. His friend is having breathing problems. Has just coughed up blood (actually, quite a lot of blood). He figures he can explain to the doctors about the meth lab and chemical damage. Or maybe Gillian will have to, because he doesn't actually know what the damage is.

She didn't tell him.

And she starts coughing again.

**PJ**

Damn, Cal wishes he could pace. He doesn't like waiting, doesn't like sitting still. There's not a mad rush going on as doctors and nurses go in and out of Gillian's cubicle, but he's still anxious; doesn't like being kept in the dark either. They drew the curtain and left him to wait in the corridor. They didn't seem overly anxious in the ambulance either; gave her oxygen and took her blood pressure. Gillian hasn't lost consciousness but she does keep coughing and after one particularly bad bout, there was more blood. Cal's worried but Gillian just seems drained. He shouldn't have asked her to go make the phone call. It was two outings, two days after she got out of the hospital, and it was too much.

The medical staff spend at least an hour (probably closer to two) with Gillian before a nurse tells him he can go in and see her. Cal gets up as fast as he can, balancing on his left foot, quickly getting the crutches under his arms (was a little cramped in the ambulance with them) and starts swinging his way around the curtain; the nurse holds it open for him. Gillian's on the bed, under a white hospital blanket, canellas under her nose, with her eyes closed. Cal's right at her side before she cracks them open to look at him; opens them wider when she recognises that it's him.

Cal hops a little as he shifts the crutches. "Do you mind?" He asks as he moves to perch on the edge of her bed. Gillian makes a half assed effort to give him a bit more space but she barely moves and he rests against her hip anyway. "All right?" He asks softly.  
"Yeah," she responds, but sounds breathless, a little wheezy.

"Really?" Cal presses. It's not that he doesn't believe her; it's that he really wants to be sure.

"Yeah," Gillian says again.

"What happened?"

Gillian shifts and gives a small wince.

"Are you in pain?"

"Just a little. From the coughing."

Cal's not surprised. It sounded like she was trying to get rid of a lung.

"Want me to get someone?" Cal asks gently.

"No," Gillian answers shortly and he doesn't know what to make of that. Condescending? Or frustrated? "They think it's just a delayed reaction to the chemicals I inhaled."

Cal's stomach feels uneasy. He's not sure she's said it aloud before; it feels like the first time he's hearing it (that admitting it aloud means it happened: they were in a meth lab explosion). Gillian doesn't add anything else and so Cal isn't sure what to say. He thinks it's because she got too cold, but he doesn't have a medical degree, so what would he know?

"They're going to let me go in a few hours," Gillian does add.

Cal nods. "That's good."

"Did you?"

Cal meets her eye. "Yeah I called them. Felt I should, seeing as we were told to stay put."

Gillian flashes guilt, then nods this time, slow and deliberate, calculating.

"They're gonna give us a ride home."

"Did you tell them about?"

"No."

**PJ**

Gillian wakes early, maybe a little cold. It seems that despite wearing long trousers, socks and a sweatshirt to bed, she can't keep warm. She's fine if she's up and moving around, but she is aware of huddling all night and being uncomfortable and maybe a part of her feels weird about Cal's expression last night when she got into her own bed and he hovered in the doorway asking her if she was fine where she was, reminding her he was just down the hall if she needed him. It's hard to tell at this point who needs whom. It very much seems that they are leaning on each other. And yeah, a part of her thinks incessantly all night about getting up and going to get into bed with him, while another part wrestles with the idea that he is her friend and she isn't entirely sure she wants to get into bed with him just for the warmth, or for something else.

Everything about this situation has been turned upside down.

Finally realising she needs the bathroom, Gillian gives up on the hope of going back to sleep, and gets out of bed. The room is lighter but still pretty dim and the world feels silent and heavy. Cal sleeps with all his doors (and curtains, it seems; his room is much lighter than hers) open, so she has to close the master bedroom/bathroom door (quietly) to use the toilet. She debates over flushing; it's a noisy process, but also unpleasant to leave it (they aren't _that_ close). She goes for it anyway and washes her hands slowly, letting the tap run a small trickle (because that's less noisy), which means it takes extra time for the hot water to come through. By the time she's done (her hands are pink because the hot water is just too nice), she's feeling paranoid about every noise she creates, every movement she makes; her body feels foreign and her chest hurts.

Before she turns away to get back into bed though (she definitely plans on at least snuggling under the covers for a little longer), she hesitates and looks towards Cal's bedroom door. It's early, she knows, but she wonders if he's awake. She goes to the wood and pushes it a little, so that it inches open and she can see to the bed. He's asleep. Or at least, he has his eyes closed. Gillian inches the door open a little bit more to make sure she can see him accurately. All of the curtains are wide open in there and the falling snow makes illusions on the wall opposite. The snow should mean it's not this cold. Which means it's probably just her. Cal's warm though. He kept her warm the other night. And she can't bear the thought of her cold sheets now that she's not in them. She barges the door fully open with her shoulder and crosses the room quickly. She bends to the mattress, lifting the edge of the blanket and he stirs. "Move over," she whispers.

He grumbles something but obliges with a grunt and a wince (of pain, she thinks and feels bad for making him move. She should have gone around) but as soon as there's a corridor big enough for her to slip into, she does so. At least on this side, his left side, there is no plaster cast. Which means there is no barrier at all to snuggling in against him. She hugs against his arm, slipping her fingers in against his palm (a technique known to stop wandering hands, not that that was why she did it), rests her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes. Cal grumbles a little in his throat but he doesn't shove her off, doesn't move much at all and after a moment, Gillian falls back asleep.

**PJ**

Cal drifts in and out most of the night. His leg almost constantly aches and whenever he manages to forget for a moment and tries to turn over (because it's so damn uncomfortable sleeping the entire night on his back), sharp pain reminds him of exactly what has happened and exactly where he is. So when he comes to awareness, his butt numb, he's only half surprised to find Gillian there. He remembers her coming in and he remembers moving over (great relief for his ass) and he remembers her cuddling against him. What he doesn't remember is the holding hands part. Or the bit where she has her other hand right over his nipple (lucky he's wearing a shirt). Yeah, that bit he's pretty sure he would have remembered. And it probably would have kept him awake.

He's awake now.

He lies still for a moment, his heart rate going up a few notches, his body temperate rising suddenly as well. It's too warm for him with two of them under the covers. And definitely excessively hot with Gillian practically lying on him. The extra body warmth makes him feel tingly with sweat and his leg itches like crazy on a spot on the back of his calf. Seriously, stupid fucking cast. It's driving him insane and it's only been five days. He wants to reach down to scratch at his leg but it's nothing but a lesson in futile. He can't even stick something that far down to get at the itch. He's thought about the logistics of it. He couldn't come up with anything long enough to start with, nor something that would be firm enough to relieve his skin, but flexible enough to go with the slight bend of his knee.

He needs a distraction, and even then it's barely enough.

Gillian stirs against him and oops, all his fidgeting has woken her. He lays still again, the itch seemingly starting to fade, but he's not sure. The urge to scratch is still overwhelming. Gillian's fingers squeeze against his and the hand on his chest brushes firmly against his t-shirt covered flesh before it withdraws. "Hi," Gillian whispers, shifting her head a little. He catches sleepy blue eyes for a second before they're gone again, her forehead against his neck.

"Morning," he tries, his voice not too croaky from misuse.

"You slept," Gillian notes.

"Yes?" Cal agrees, not sure what her point is.

"You didn't sleep the other night."

That's because she was there. He almost says that aloud. It could have been embarrassing. Or not, because he could just elaborate that he wasn't used to another body being in his bed, or that she slept so damn closely that he kept waking up. But neither of those excuses sounds entirely safe either. So he stays quiet. And he doesn't notice how itchy his leg feels for a few seconds. Gillian makes a good distraction. She always has.

"Did you sleep ok?" Cal tries to steer the conversation away from himself.

"I did."

"You got cold?" He guesses. He's not sure he remembers if she said anything to him when she came in.

"Yeah, earlier this morning."

He supposes it's not a good thing, her seeming inability to regulate her body temperature properly, but it's working out all right for him. "You're feeling better?"

There's a slight pause, but she does confirm that she is (and there were no drowning sounds or coughing that woke him up). She pulls away from him a little more and tilts her hip away from him again. He feels her startle and attempts to grab her (but fails with his casted hand. He just gets tangled in the sheet and crushes his fingers.) "Careful," he warns quickly as Gillian gains her balance herself. "There's not a lot of room."

Gillian's head comes up and she looks behind her. She is literally on the edge of the mattress. Cal attempts to move over a little bit more, give her more space, but she stops him with that hand on his chest again. "It's ok," she tells him. "I'll get up."

Damn.

He wants to think of a good reason why she shouldn't get out of bed but his brain isn't working fast enough yet. He needs coffee, food, and ten minutes to wake up. Also the bathroom. Gillian flicks back the covers, disentangles their fingers, and knocks her head against his jaw as she manoeuvres out of the sheet. She murmurs a sorry and stands, pulling the hoodie down to cover the small of her back again. Cal isn't sure how she can sleep in that thing and not die of heat exhaustion.

The skin is nice.

Gillian says she's ok but Cal isn't entirely convinced. She moves slowly as they go about breakfast and coffee and she doesn't suggest they do anything in particular after that. She does put on a load of washing, asking if he has anything he wants to throw in (and later, when he goes to the bathroom one time and hears the machine beeping that it has finished and he puts some of the clothes in the dryer, he grabs a handful of her underwear: first sighting). She doesn't even get dressed, just hangs out on the couch with him, getting up for food when he agrees to her suggestions. They watch TV for a few hours, and then, bored with that, they play cards. Gillian accuses him of cheating, even though he can't read her face for the life of him. Sometimes he thinks he sees something clearly, but then with her (well, at least since she admitted to deceiving him all those years and never letting it slip), he's not sure.

They were meant to have a conversation. About what they were going to do in regards to the case that got them here. And about what they were going to do once they were moved to their new permanent home. But Cal doesn't have the heart to bring it up just yet (the phone call and resulting blood coughing incidences of yesterday far too fresh in his mind). He feels he's pushed at Gillian either too much or too hard, maybe both, so thinks he should just back off for a moment. It's only a day and it's nice to just have the time to spend with her (because when he considers all the ways in which he might not have any time with her at all, he thinks this mundane little day is a pretty damn good compromise). His leg itches though, half way down his thigh and he thinks he can reach it with his finger if the gap between the plaster and his skin is big enough.

"Hang on," Cal tells Gillian, tucking his cards under his left thigh and leaning all the way back so he can get in to his right. He tries his index finger first, then his middle finger, but the middle one just brushes the edge of the itchy spot, infuriating it a little more. Cal gives a grunt of derision and looks to find Gillian firstly frowning, then switching to amused. "Need something longer," he tells her. A knife from the kitchen would do it. A butter knife.

"Blow on it," she tells him and gets up off the couch easily, knocking the cards that were on the cushion between them into disarray. She puts her cards down on the coffee table while Cal does a double take. It sounds like she just said she was going to blow him. But that can't be right (seriously, it can_not_ be right. Unless... No. No, no, he must have misheard). She leaves the room and disappears for a few minutes and Cal thinks he might have made it to the kitchen by now to get that knife and help himself out.

Cal wiggles a bit, kicking the cards into a bigger mess, trying to get at the itch. It is seriously so damn close. He hasn't often wished he were bigger, but right now he desires his fingers to be just a little bit longer. He feels a growl of frustration in his throat. Gillian comes back into the lounge with a hairdryer. She plugs it into the wall while Cal watches her incredulously. Seriously? He can't even...

"Move over here a bit," Gillian directs when it's clear the device doesn't quite reach him on the couch. She makes him stand right by the wall (so much for a bit), with his palms pressed against it like he's preparing for a full body search. When Gillian kneels by his hip he does actually start to feel a little uncomfortable. She looks up at him, her blue eyes clear and slight amusement on her face (perhaps the orientation of the situation is not lost on her either). "This is going to... help."

Cal gives her a frown, doesn't know what to say, doesn't really know what to expect. She turns the hair dryer on, sticks a finger into the top of his cast (on the side that is nowhere near his groin) and pulls a little, like she can peel back the plaster from his skin. He gets the hint and presses his leg back against the gypsum as much as possible and there is a gap big enough; he _can_ get his finger in there after all. Gillian angles the air so it blows down his leg and even though the distraction of her being so close was working just fine on its own, the cold air against his skin, which at first does nothing, helps. A lot.

He wants her to blow his whole leg.

Heh.

Cal chuckles a little and Gillian looks up at him again. "What?"

"Nothing," he responds. "It's a good trick."

Gillian gives a sly little smile. "It helps?"

"Yeah."

"Anywhere else?"

"My knee," Cal smirks.

Gillian twists her mouth, shifts the air back and forth across the top of his thigh. "Sorry. I only know a few tricks."

Gillian is on her knees in front of him, turning tricks.

Heheheh.

Gillian catches his grin and smiles pleasantly in return.

"I'll take what I can get," Cal tells her, shifting his weight forward onto the toes of his left foot and hands, so he's putting less pressure on his bad leg (it makes his muscles ache to hold it off the ground and yet even resting the cast on the carpet makes the point of the break hurt). Gillian makes this a little bit more bearable. He thinks life would be dull without her in it. And he's grateful that they've been kept together. If he was going to be stuck in this with anyone, he would want it to be her. 'This' being the witness protection thing. Cal realises he hasn't seen her smile that genuinely amused, that carefree, in a while.

Gillian shifts to the back of his cast, using her finger to wiggle into the gap and he presses his thigh forward this time, as much as possible. He tries not to think about her being that close to his butt and when something brushes firmly against it, he's startled, thinking it's her hand before realising it was the hair dryer. She murmurs a 'sorry' but keeps going and even though his skin isn't itchy back there, the cool dry air feels wonderful compared to the sweaty claustrophobic plaster.

Gillian is patient so it's Cal that calls off the blow job (he's _got_ to stop thinking like that). Mostly, he gets tired of standing that way, not that he doesn't appreciate the air and not that it doesn't feel incredible, he just gets tired of holding his weight on one foot and trying to keep the heavy cast from being weight bearing. He goes back to the couch, swinging his leg up to the cushions (cards are a complete wreck at this point) and shifting his butt down so his head is resting on the arm rest. He's more comfortable that way but he still makes sure to leave room for Gillian. She goes to the put hair dryer away, though he's tempted to suggest she leaves it out. He closes his eyes and feels her weight against the cushions when she returns. The TV goes on quietly and Cal drifts some more. And then he falls asleep.

Cal puts his fork back in his empty bowl. "That was fantastic. Haven't eaten that well in a while."

"You need someone to take care of you," Gillian says, then is embarrassed; her face feels warm.

Cal gives a small smile; his slightly amused smirk. "It's becoming more apparent."

Gillian gets up from the table, even though she hasn't finished (she wasn't overly hungry to start with, seeing as she has done nothing at all today). "Do you want some more?" She asks as she also takes his bowl. She moves into the kitchen.

"Nah I'm stuffed."

She watches as he struggles to his feet, leaning on one of his crutches and the table, then the door frame, to leave the room. Surely the hospital would have sent him home in a wheelchair. Cal in a wheelchair? She laughs to herself. Nope, can't imagine it (the way he goes, he would probably ignore it even if there were one provided). She rinses out their bowls (but leaves the dishes for tomorrow), puts the leftover food away in the fridge, and goes into the other room again (eating at the table was merely an exercise in breaking up staring at the walls. There are different walls in the kitchen/dining room to look at).

Cal nudges the remote towards her when she drops down next to him, so she flicks the television on and starts hunting. She gives up on finding something entertaining to watch, so settles on a music channel playing classics from her childhood (nothing contemporary at all), and reaches for the nail polish she found under the sink earlier when she was getting the hair dryer for Cal's leg.

'Dreams' by Fleetwood Mac is ending when she checks her toenails to see if the nail polish has dried. She puts her socks back on and looks over at Cal. He's asleep again and it's good to see; he needs to rest (he's meant to be healing, and he doesn't seem to sleep so well when he's in bed). But she also thinks about waking him and making him go to bed. It's late and he'll probably wake early now. He napped before dinner too.

Today was a good day. It felt like a turning point of sorts. Cal slept and her lungs didn't feel as bad as they did when she woke up really early that morning. They even feel better than they did when she first got out of the hospital just a few days ago. And she, in general, feels good. More energetic, less tired, more focussed. Not that she's been exercising her brain in particular. There are still cards in the couch (she couldn't get them all around a sleeping Cal) and she's done nothing this afternoon and evening but dry the last of the laundry, paint her toenails and listen to music (watching the occasional music video). She didn't really cook anything elaborate for dinner either (it was nicer to get off the couch and do something somewhat constructive, rather than try to impress). Tomorrow, though, she thinks they should do something practical; maybe work on that email for the Lightman Group (though she's not volunteering to go out and send it. Not yet).

Socks on, the song ends, and ads start playing next. Gillian turns the power off. The room goes suddenly quiet and she looks over at Cal. He doesn't stir. He sleeps with his mouth open a little and seems vulnerable. Gillian slips the remote to the coffee tablet and gets up, untangling a leg from the blanket that was half over her lap (she also doesn't feel as cold as she did).

"Cal," she says. He still doesn't stir. It's kind of weird standing there, watching him sleep. It's not the first time she's caught him napping on a couch, but this is the first time she's stopped to think about it (usually she's on a mission to tell him something or get answers or go somewhere).

"Cal," she tries again and leans down to his shoulder, giving it a squeeze and a shake.

He startles and opens his eyes. "What?"

"Come on, let's go to bed."

He seems disorientated for a second.

"It's late," she carries on, letting him go.

Cal sits (struggles, actually) and manoeuvres himself to get up. Gillian reaches for his crutches (both together for once) and hands them over. He takes them without refusal, without fuss, and she puts out the lights and heads down the hall ahead of him, lighting the way as she goes and getting to the bathroom first. She doesn't linger in there, knowing he's half asleep and will want to get in behind her. She calls that the bathroom is free and goes out the hallway door to her room. She turns down the bed spread and kneels on the mattress (doesn't need to change into pyjamas) when she realises she forgot to say goodnight to Cal. She lies there with the light on, the covers up to her chin, debating with herself about sleeping with him. Not _sleeping_ with him, but going to sleep with him. He calls out a 'goodnight' and she echoes it and listens to him getting into bed. She waits a beat longer, but she's lost her nerve. So she puts the light out and lies in the dark, still thinking about him as she goes to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

_AN: there is an increasing list of people I haven't been able to contact individually to say thank you for reviewing. So thank you to you all. I appreciate your thoughts, encouragement and time._

**PJ**

The air is tense and thick. Cal beats Gillian to the kitchen the next morning but he doesn't make her coffee. When she greets him he grunts a response. She can't help but feel like he's annoyed at her (annoyed might be putting it mildly). And she can't help but think it was because of last night, when they yelled goodnight at each other through walls and doors and went to bed alone. What he doesn't realise is that she spent so much time thinking about him (and her decision to stay in her room) while trying to sleep, that it took her forever to drift off; she's just as put out as heis. The unfamiliar bed, the strange surroundings, even the clothes that aren't hers, they all feel less disarming when he's around. Even making coffee (and then breakfast) in a kitchen that isn't hers (that she still has to go looking for items in) feels less odd when he's at the breakfast bar, grumbling and shifting around, uncomfortable, but at least there with her.

So she made a mistake in going to bed alone last night.

She gets it.

It's not just him. It's her too. They clearly both want it (maybe need it?). Ok, Cal might just be grumpy in the morning before caffeine, and yeah maybe he looks tired because she knows he's not sleeping easily with his broken leg and massive white cast. But the tone in his voice last night, when he said goodnight from the other room, and then turned away. She thinks about these things. She might, just might, be reading too much into it, but she's pretty sure her intuition isn't wrong; he's hurt she didn't sleep with him last night.

Not _sleep_ with him, sleep with him. She's not... There isn't... She means sleep with him. Next to him. Sleep next to him. In the same bed. Sleep in the same bed as him. Not even next to him. On the other side of the bed. It's just the same mattress. And covers. That's all. Nothing... There's nothing...

"What do you want to do today?" Gillian changes the subject.

Cal, who is picking at the eggs she made him, (is there something wrong with her cooking? Hers tasted just fine. She's even managed to do the dishes and clean up in the time it's taken him to pick through half his breakfast. If he wasn't hungry, he should have just said and she wouldn't have gone to the effort) looks up. "Thought we could go for a hike, then rent a hot air balloon and take a tour of the lakes."

Gillian gives him a flat stare.

But it is kind of funny.

It's the tone that gets her. And yeah, she definitely feels like she's being punished somehow. There's a vibe, a tenseness that wasn't there yesterday. She thinks maybe they have cabin fever. She thinks she definitely feels claustrophobic (and she's getting annoyed again at how he's behaving). She thinks two hours in another room, alone, might be good for her. She tells him she's going to take a shower. He gives another grunt.

Back in her room, Gillian throws aside the curtains, half expects a familiar view, but is wrong all over again. At least the sun is attempting to come out from behind grey clouds, but it looks about as feeble as Gillian feels. Her mind goes back to the helplessness of the situation and she tries to ignore it. Thinking like that is not going to get her anywhere, and there is nothing she can do about it. She can only get on with it. She's not sure how she's going to get on with it (or just what exactly she is meant to be getting on with, seeing as they're stuck in limbo right now waiting for their new lives), but starting with a basic routine seems like a good place to begin; she's not unwell anymore (the extra medications she got at the second hospital visit two days ago have really made a difference), feels energetic and motivated (still not sure what she's meant to be motivated about but still... it's there). So she goes with it.

Gillian showers and washes her hair. She dresses in the jeans she bought herself and the comfortable twin hoodie to the sky blue one she's taken to sleeping in; this one is a pale green. She takes the time to dry her hair straight (as straight as she can get it), then rifles through the bathroom again to see if there are straightening irons, hair products, or something. She finds the bottles of nail polish again, moisturiser and mascara. She takes the polish (she put clear on her toes the other day. This time she's going to go for a colour. Because it's something to do), leaves the mascara and uses the moisturiser. It smells like vanilla. She heads to the living room to see what Cal is up to; she thinks she might be ready for some company again, no matter what he throws at her.

Cal is on the couch. Stretched out full length. Staring at the wall. Gillian watches him from the doorway for a moment but he doesn't shift (she's not sure he even blinks). He doesn't seem to notice she's there, because he doesn't speak, doesn't turn his head in her direction (though she is out of his line of sight). So she moves and as she comes around the couch she catches his attention. She goes for an arm chair, but he starts to shift to make room for her and so she hesitates a little and then he realises she was going to sit somewhere else. As she moves to sit with him he changes his mind and starts to settle back. So Gillian tries again for the arm chair as Cal notices she was going to sit with him after all and shifts to make room again. Gillian makes a quick decision (before this gets completely ridiculous. Or weirder): she wants to sit next to him. She makes a show of waiting for him to move out of the way and sits carefully next to his casted foot.

The television isn't on, so it seems Cal really was staring at the wall. Gillian takes out the bottles of nail polish from her pockets and looks over to Cal. He's watching her. She wonders if he wakes up on the wrong side of the bed, or if he really is mad at her for not coming to sleep in his bed. She's not sure why the second thought makes her cheeks feel warm; pleased or embarrassed?

This could be a really long day.

Gillian decides on a colour, tucks a leg up so her knee was under her chin and pushes back the sleeves of her hoodie, preparing to paint her toenails. Dark red. It's called 'blood rose'. She gives the little bottle a shake and twists the top off and wonders why there would be nail polish in the safe house. Working under the assumption that someone stocks the house for guests such as her and Cal, why would they think of nail polish? (Maybe they just went to the pharmacy and grabbed one of everything off the shelf. Seems odd).

"What happened to your wrist?"

Gillian looks to her left, where Cal is sitting against the arm of the couch, watching her. She looks down at her wrists, not sure what he means; her right has a large red mark on the edge of her palm. It only hurts if she presses it (which she does. To see if it hurts). "It's a bruise," she tells him and goes back to her toes. Should have grabbed some cotton buds.

"That from the accident?"

For a second, Gillian feels startled panic. How does he know about the accident? But then she realises he means the explosion nearing on a week ago, not her fall in the street the other day (which until now, she's actually managed to not over analyse. Probably because the rush to the hospital afterwards over shadowed it. But now that he brings it up, she feels foolish for freaking out in the middle of the city). Everything feels like forever ago. Even a few days feels more like a week. Cal must sense something in her hesitation, because he presses her again.

"I fell," Gillian admits, glancing over at him, avoiding his eye.

"When?"

"The other day."

"Here?"

"When I was in town," Gillian mumbles while trying to sound nonchalant. There's a moment of silence and she thinks he might leave it at that. But she's so wrong.

"You didn't say."

"It didn't really come up," she tries to flash a reassuring smile, but now she's thinking about the panic she felt on the street that day, with the howling bitter cold and strangers all around. She's not been one to suffer from anxiety, certainly not panic attacks, and she feels irrational all over again; looking back on it, she doesn't really know what the problem was.

"You get that checked out?"

He means her wrist, when she was back in the hospital, getting treated again for her lungs. This one though, has an easy answer. "It's fine. Just a bruise." She's managed to forget about it. And if it were broken, she would not.

"Not broken?"

It doesn't sound much like a question and Gillian finishes up on her little toe to look over at him again, amused this time. He gives her surprise in response, a slightly raised eyebrow that invites her to explain. "Can you imagine it? Both of us in plaster?" She smiles and there's a tremor of Cal's lip as he gives in to a slight grin too.  
"We'd be a right pair."

Gillian smiles deeper, genuine (pleased the hostility seems to have died down, at least for a moment. She doesn't know what to do with him, but the talking seems to be working). She moves so her foot is on the coffee table so her toes can dry without her smudging them. She shifts her left foot so it's on the edge of the couch cushion, and her knee is under her chin, so she can start on the other toes.

"How did you fall?"

And now it feels like an interrogation.

"How does anyone fall Cal?" She looks over at him, briefly, then back to her toes and the dark red nail polish.

"You slipped, someone pushed you, you tripped..."

"I slipped," Gillian answered. Really, the more she thinks about it now, the sillier it seems.

"Icy?"

"Yeah I guess."

There's a pause. "Should be more careful," Cal mumbles.

It doesn't warrant an answer.

When Gillian's done with her feet, and has both of them on the coffee table to dry, they find a movie to watch (something by Dreamworks, as it turns out. Their latest animation) and Cal falls asleep half way through. He sleeps for several long hours (pretty soundly it seems) and Gillian finds something else to watch once the first movie finishes. And then she starts to feel like she's going out of her mind. She folds the laundry. Then she puts it away. She cooks dinner and puts it in the oven. Then she cleans the kitchen, does the dishes, finds she's run out of things to do. The timer on the oven says there is fifteen minutes left until their meal has finished cooking. So she goes to wake Cal.

Maybe she needs him after all.

**PJ**

Cal stands at the toilet. It's ridiculous, but he has to hold on to the wall to keep his balance while he goes (like he's had too much to drink or something; been a while since that happened), because it hurts too much to actually put his broken foot down on the ground and rest his weight on it, even a little. When he's redressing, looking down to see, he notices there is something black on the cast on his right leg. He flushes the loo and hops backwards, angling his leg in the light so he can see what it is. _Gillian was here_, is written in black marker on top of his foot (the right way up, so he can read it; so he will see it every time he looks down now). And his toenails are painted a dark red.

Cal stares for a second, not sure if he's imagining it, then quickly deduces his partner is having a laugh at his expense. He washes his hands (well, just the one, plus the fingertips of his right hand, really, really carefully, so he doesn't get the plaster wet) and dries them vigilantly. He picks up the one crutch he can favour on his left side and uses the wall of the hallway to hobble to the dining room.

Gillian woke him for dinner out of a deep sleep but he feels refreshed now (even though he also thinks he's probably going to have a shit time of trying to get to sleep tonight. He really should work on correcting that). He thinks about how he's going to get back at her for writing on his cast, but can't come up with anything good; an opportune moment will have to present itself (maybe he's still too sleepy at present). She's too nimble for him at the moment and his usual methods of evening the score aren't going to be practical right now either, while he's in plaster (and seeing as it could be at least six weeks, retaliation could be a long term process).

Cal gets to the dining room just as Gillian is serving up their dinner. She has set the table. Placemats, plates, knives and forks, wine glasses (for water), the works. Wow. This is... unexpected. And kind of nice. Gillian looks over her shoulder at him. "Come sit," she gestures to the steaming food on his plate. It looks like a casserole. Or some concoction. But it smells great and Cal is hungry (they skipped lunch). He manoeuvres himself around the table, grabbing on to Gillian's chair and hopping, switching the crutch to his other hand (fingers) and ignoring it now.

"I got your note," Cal says as he falls awkwardly into his seat, his arm brushing heavily against Gillian as he goes by so he almost takes her down with him.

"My note?" Gillian muses as she puts plates in front of their places.

Cal shifts in his seat, trying to move his bulky leg further under the table so he is at least facing the right way. It takes a moment and he bangs against the wood several times, jolting the point of the break, making it ache. As Cal moves, he gestures to the cast at his thigh and watches her face. She looks embarrassed, but also amused.

Gillian gives a little huff of a laugh. "Oh you did?"

"Uh huh. And lucky burgundy is in my wheelhouse of colours."

Gillian gives another small laugh. "Mine too." She sits and they eat.

**PJ**

Cal takes up one of his crutches and uses it and the door frame to propel himself out of the bathroom and towards the bed. As he's coming out of the smaller room, Gillian comes into the bigger one, with an armful of pillows. He's surprised but he doesn't say anything, even as she hesitates in the door way, waiting for a moment (maybe for invitation), before coming slowly into the room and heading over to the bed, where Cal has already started the awkward dance of dumping the crutch so he can get it in the morning and swinging his body around to the mattress without getting caught up in his cast or putting his weight on the break. It's probably something he wouldn't want Gillian to witness but she doesn't tease him about it and for that he's grateful (he feels his frustration just below his diaphragm and is sure the slightest provocation is going to unleash it).

Cal still doesn't say anything when Gillian puts the extra pillows down on the bed and pulls back the covers like she's going to get in there with him. Nope, definitely not going to complain about that. He doesn't even say anything when she makes him lie back while she puts one of the spare pillows under his broken leg. And then she practically tucks him in (still not complaining). She puts the light out, goes around the bed in the dark, and gets in next to him, like she does this every night, like it's completely normal. Maybe her getting into bed with him has become a little normal. It's certainly not great when she isn't there (he might have caught himself sulking about it a little earlier this morning).

Gillian settles easily and quickly and then the room is silent. It's a little different when she crawls in at some ungodly hour and he's half asleep. It's less awkward then.

"Does it feel better with the pillow?"

Cal takes a moment to think, to notice, to feel. "Yes," he grudgingly admits. Why didn't she do it days ago? Would have saved him a world of discomfort. He might even possibly, maybe, have slept better. It's been quiet for too long now. How could it be this weird when they've known each other so long? When they've shared a bed a few nights this week anyway? "Thank you."

Not easy getting those words out, but he _is_ trying.

"You're welcome," Gillian responds pleasantly. She might have been waiting for it.

"Personal experience?"

"Alec."

Silence.

Heavy silence.

Cal is surprised, startled, not expecting her to bring up her ex like that. But he supposes it's not completely out of line. He's just caught off guard. It must have happened before he knew her, the broken leg, because she would have mentioned it if Alec was laid up like he was. Which just reminds him that she had a whole other life before she met him, that it hasn't always been the two of them (it's _not_ the two of them; it sort of is), even if it feels like just the two of them now. And it just makes him feel weird, like he mentioned her recently deceased grandmother or something else equally awkward. He feels a bit like an idiot, getting closer to her when she's... not even married anymore, so why is he feeling so ridiculous about it? Gillian probably doesn't react like this to Zoe. He _knows_ she doesn't react like this to Zoe. Or maybe it's because she has gotten used to it because Zoe was still around for a while and Alec seems to have just dropped off the face of the earth.

And maybe he's totally over thinking it.

Thankfully, Gillian doesn't elaborate on that story and the weird silence just becomes a silence and after a while, it sounds like Gillian has gone to sleep. Her breathing gets even, slow and soft (and even more thankfully, doesn't sound like she's drowning in shallow water). She twitches gently a few times and gets quieter and Cal knows for sure she's gone. But he's wide awake. And he's thinking now about how he thinks about Gillian.

They're meant to be starting over, a new leaf, fresh chances. This is meant to be a whole new life and he doesn't know what else. There are possibilities but they have baggage. No one else would know, but they would. He's done things in the past and sometimes he honestly wonders why Gillian is still with him. And now she doesn't really have a choice. Which might not be as consoling as it seems. Truthfully, she could go and there would be little he could do to stop her (though he thinks the marshals would probably like it better if they were in the same place; easier to keep track of them that way).

Gillian shifts and rolls towards him. He feels the brush of her hand against his upper arm, thinks she might have curled up and tucked a hand under her pillow (has to rely on his imagination for lack of light). The fingers of his broken arm twitch towards her and he wants to tell her that he can't imagine his life without her in it, that if he has to be trapped in this hell of a situation, he's glad it's with her (even though he doesn't feel great about the bit where she got hurt in the explosion).

"You're still awake?" Gillian asks and she doesn't sound sleepy. It can't be that long since she drifted off (since Cal thought she had).

"Yeah," he whispers back when he starts to realise her question wasn't rhetorical.

"I let you nap too long today."

Cal chuckles and he hears Gillian give a short huff of amusement. "Well. You might have to keep me company now."

"No," Gillian grumbles. "I'm going to go to sleep."

"Yes," Cal shifts his left hand towards where he thinks her torso is and attempts to poke her. He's not sure, but he thinks he might have, it feels like it, but he's not sure; he thinks he accidentally touched her breast (or at least something else that was soft and fleshy). Which is how he starts speculating about the lack of sweatshirt. She was definitely wearing it before she put the light out. And he was pretty sure she hadn't taken it off before she got into bed. She might have, but she was quiet about it. And it isn't exactly pitch black; he didn't notice her removing a bulky item of clothing. But it feels like it is gone now. Not that he is really purposefully trying to cop a feel. But now that he might have...

"No," Gillian complains, shoving his hand away.

"Yep," Cal tells her, sounding bolder (even if he has to lie still for a moment, his heart beating noticeably). "You graffiti-ed my cast. You owe me." He attempts another jab to her abdomen (thinks he gets stomach this time; which is equally relieving and disappointing and a realisation that last time, he might have crossed over a line. And he is frigging pushing it, attempting to jab her again).

(Then there's also the bit where she didn't jump up with exclamation, or roll away from him in protest. Not that he's saying she wanted him to touch her in that way. He's just saying, she didn't recoil. Maybe he didn't touch her in any untoward way after all).

"If I black it out, am I off the hook?" Gillian mumbles, half heartedly fending him off (but somehow just moving closer).

"I dunno. There's also the issue of my toenails."

Gillian gives a louder laugh, sounding more awake and Cal smiles in the darkness; he likes the way she laughs. He can't see every detail of her face, but enough of her outline to know where she lies in proximity to him (right on the edge of her pillow, by the way; he can feel her body warmth across the small gap).

Impulsively, he angles his hand back and turns on the lamp next to his side of the bed, cutting off Gillian's 'what are you do?' Gillian _is_ facing towards him and she immediately frowns and tries burying her face into her pillow. She lets out a grumble, "you're cruel," and throws a hand at his chest.

Cal turns back towards her, eager. "Gill."

"What?" She grouches.

He wants to ask her 'what next' but he's not sure if this is the right time for the conversation (it's late, after all). And then he thinks about how the marshals are working to put together a new life for them and he and Gillian have made no demands about how that life is going to be. He feels like they're running out of time; they've spent days wasting it (it's actually a week now since the explosion, six days since he's been here and four since Gillian joined him). So maybe the conversation _is_ pressing. What he wants to know is: what does Gillian want?

But it's late and it's dark and it doesn't feel like the right time. He hesitates.

"Wanna play cards?" He quips instead.

Gillian groans. "Go to sleep."

"I can't," he complains and he's completely aware that he sounds like a petulant child. It was safe in the darkness and it's made him feel bold.

"You didn't even try."

"I did."

"Did not," Gillian grumps back. "What time is it?"

"Dunno," Cal tells her truthfully. There is a clock beside his bed but he can't easily just roll towards it and have a gander. He has to sit up on one arm and lean in. Bloody awkward being this broken up.

"Have a look."

"You have a look," he bites out a bit more sharply than he intended.

Gillian doesn't seem fazed by it. The atmosphere doesn't go tense or weird. She just picks herself up and leans against him so she can see the clock.

Cal uses his left hand to squeeze at her side, to steady her, that's his reasoning (he can definitely see there's no hoodie, just a t-shirt) and Gillian flinches away from him. But she's laughing a little so Cal takes that as a good sign; she might not be entirely mad that he won't let her go to sleep (he wonders if she did fall asleep before, or whether she just got quiet for a while, trying. Maybe slipping into stage one). She reaches for the clock to turn it further towards her (he doesn't protest. Kind of likes the way she feels pressed against his chest, to be honest).

"Well at least it's not yet midnight."

Which means it's probably pretty close. Time can play tricks when it wants to. Cal could have sworn it had been maybe half an hour since they got into bed, but really, it's been more like an hour and a half. He thinks Gillian really must have gone to sleep before and now he does feel bad for stopping her from getting back there. Gillian puts the light out again and when she settles once more, it's with her head on his shoulder and he can smell her hair and feel her body warm and solid against his (absent in the places where she curls around his casts).

"Gill?" He tries again. He doesn't know why he doesn't want the conversation to end just yet, he just knows that he doesn't. They spent all day together, all of yesterday, and yet right now is the time he decides he wants to talk.

"Yeah?"

"If you could live anywhere, where would it be?"

"Southern France," Gillian answers immediately.

Cal's surprised by her conviction; she's thought about this already. "Don't think the marshals will put us up in Europe."

"Oh you meant in America?"

"Sure."

"Mmm. New York," she answers, sounding wistful.

Cal doesn't like New York. The culture doesn't appeal to him. But he thinks he would tolerate it for her. Which is stupid because what scenario puts them in New York together? He's pretty sure the witness protection program involves staying away from the major cities; the idea is low key.

"What about you?" Gillian prompts. "Anywhere in the world?"

Cal has to think for a moment, because he _hasn't_ put any thought into this kind of scenario. "Germany," he decides.

"Why Germany?"

"Why not?"

"Fair enough." Gillian shifts, her body smoothing out along the edge of his casts, and her head repositioning on the pillow next to his, but close, so they can see each other (outlines, now their eyes have readjusted. Cal thinks the room has gotten lighter but there is no way that's true if it's nearly midnight). Even though Cal's on his back, his head is turned towards her. "What about in America? If you could pick where the marshals put us?" Gillian asks next.

Cal almost smiles (she sees through him) but has to take a moment to think about his answer. He half contemplates telling her something cheesy like '_I'd ask to go where you are'_ but manages to reign himself in before it escapes into his mouth. He's always liked DC though. He likes the climate and the atmosphere and he likes the politics of it. Boston pops into his head but a split second behind that is Zoe and so he moves on. New England might be nice though. Then of course there's the west coast, closer to Emily.

"Too many choices?" Gillian queries lightly when he hasn't answered yet.

"I like DC," he admits.

When Gillian answers, her tone is soft, and Cal can imagine the facial expression that goes with it. "Me too."

"Toronto," Cal settles on.

"That's not in America."

"You didn't say the United States of."

Gillian's tone gets more amused. "Fair point. I didn't."

Cal closes his eyes for a moment, pictures her leaning over him. She's beautiful and adorable and even though it's the dead of the night and he hasn't seen her with make up on in days, she still looks gorgeous (in his mind). And the way she looks at him sometimes (more often since they've been here), like she can see right through him to his heart, it makes Cal feel strange things inside, things he hasn't felt since he was a young man.

He's not sure he's thinking about that, or what he's thinking about, when he shifts forward to kiss her. Just a press of his mouth against hers; he wants to feel her lips (he wants to feel more than that, has for a while now).

Even that steals his breath.

He thinks he surprises himself with being bold and he's amazed more that she doesn't shove him off. She doesn't ask him what he's doing either, so he doesn't have to come up with an awkward explanation that would pale to how he really feels; he hasn't been able to put a name on it properly (even though he admitted to his daughter that he loves her. Sometimes it feels like it's more than that. If that is even possible). When he pulls back a little, it's impossible to read Gillian in the dark, so he's got nothing to go on, no clue from her eyes or mouth or jaw to tell him if he did right or wrong. He thinks sometimes there might have been something between them, clues that he missed, that he saw sometimes but was never sure about. He's even less sure now but she doesn't say anything discouraging (doesn't say anything either, actually, which _could_ be considered discouraging), doesn't move away, doesn't get out of bed, doesn't attempt to slap him (he's imagined too many scenarios where that's happened); but he can't see her face.

And then she's closing the gap to press her mouth against his and it sends a jolt through him. He kisses her back, tries to lean up into her but finds the angle awkward. His left hand cups around her jaw and it's clumsy as they bump off each other. Gillian breaks away and gives him a little push, suggesting he lie down again, and he goes with it as she sits up to shift closer to him, pressing her hip against his, her thigh against his cast (that can't be comfortable at all), her chest against his rib, a hand at his shoulder. She presses her mouth against his again, but it's a little more open; she's a little more breathless. So Cal goes with it, kissing her firmer, warmer, working against her lips purposefully.

**PJ**

At first, Gillian's not sure what's happening. She feels Cal move towards her and she feels something against her mouth but it takes a split second longer to comprehend what he's doing. He's kissing her. Finally, actually, just went for it, and now he's kissing her. In the dead darkness of the bedroom, but still, he took the plunge. She decides she likes it, despite the surprise; likes that he's made a move, likes how his mouth feels on hers, likes how it makes her feel inside. She's thought about it, of course, how it might feel to kiss him, or have him kiss her, and sometimes she's honestly thought that it could be weird. They're friends and they're business partners (or were. Were business partners) but maybe not. Maybe the business partner's bit doesn't matter anymore because god only knows what's happened to the Group since they've been gone (she still figures people have been told they're dead. But it would be hard trying to get around funerals and the legal ramifications. So maybe they've just disappeared and no one knows anything about where they've gone. Maybe everyone can work out they've gone into witness protection).

Cal pushes against her, trying to get leverage, but it sets her off balance and that sets him off balance and they bump against each other in the dark for a moment. Gillian pushes back at Cal's chest, making him lie back again and shifts in close to kiss him, reassuring that she's still there, still wants him; still wants to do this. Her thighs are pressed against his cast and she can feel the rough brush of the one on his arm against her hips and waist, where he wants to grab her. When he finally makes his way under her shirt, he scrapes the plaster right up her rib cage and she flinches away from him.

"Sorry," he whispers tightly.

"Mm," Gillian kind of hums with a little displeasure, reaching for his arm, not wanting him to pull away but unable to find the words to explain that quickly. She presses her mouth against his again (gets quite a bit of cheek in there before aligning their lips in the dark) and curls her fingers into his right hand. She feels him try to tug away, but she pulls him closer, pressing the mass of their fingers against the flat of her stomach, wanting him to touch, but hoping he gets that his cast is uncomfortable against her flesh. She feels the exact moment he gets restless, even as they explore each other's mouths; his whole body goes into motion. His fingers tug and pull from hers, coming back to stroke at her skin (so she slides her hand against his jaw), and his torso comes up to attempt to press into her again. His right leg pushes against her too, and she gets that he's trying to turn over, so he's not on his back. His mouth breaks from hers and it's awkward. Not only can he not manoeuvre all that plaster, but he can't lie on it either, and she's on the right side of his body. Gillian isn't encumbered, so she shifts up so she's on her hands and knees and Cal has no choice but to move back. She leans over him, sensing where his mouth is easily this time, and kisses him again, firmly, hoping he'll realise his limitations too. His left hand comes into play, squeezing at her waist, his right hand mimicking on the other side; the cast doesn't feel so bad when it doesn't scrape against her skin.

They settle into that position, Gillian relaxing her arms a bit more so their bodies touch and she focuses on the kisses, the scratch of his stubble (and trying to avoid it), the tease of his tongue. He's a very good kisser and it tightens her stomach into knots of wanting and excitement. Honestly? When she's watched him kiss other women, she's been a little jealous.

They start exploring bodies, Cal's hands more daring and Gillian shifting her weight so she can touch his torso without falling all over him. She traces the patterns of his muscles, his flesh, feeling her way in the dark, letting the images bloom behind her eyes, periodically disrupted by the electrical jolts of his fingers on her skin. He curves around her waist, hips, ass, breasts (over and under clothing); he's not shy or restrained. And interestingly, she doesn't seem to mind.

She feels Cal move again, drops the right arm, shifts his weight, like the roll of an ocean. Gillian goes with it (warm and enthralled), moving with the ripple of his body, until she finds that he's pulling away from her. He's reaching for... She hears the drawer open on his bedside table and then he's practically ignoring her, bumping her out of the way so he can reach. She thinks he might be putting the light back on (she might be a little mortified by that; this is much easier in the dark) but he's fumbling around in the drawer so that can't be right. And when he gives a grunt of displeasure, obviously not finding whatever he was looking for, she suddenly clicks. She moves away from him, crawling across the bed to the other side table and tugging open the drawer. She's not sure if she should be offended that he's presuming this is going to lead to sex, or whether she should maybe be glad she doesn't have to insist on protection if it _does_ lead to sex, or if she does want this to lead to sex (nah, ok, who's she kidding? Yes she does), or if this is just sex, or something more, and if she wants it to _just_ be sex, or something more, and if they should talk about it before they do it or whether it's just better to go with it and maybe talk about it in the morning. Or not at all? As her hand slides against the wood inside the empty drawer Cal angles himself out of bed and she hears him hop, thump and wince to the door to the bathroom. The light goes on. She gives up on the drawer, tries to ignore the nervousness threatening the arousal.

Cal's back. He hops and winces over to the bed and Gillian shuffles over on her knees to meet him, gripping the back of his head to angle his mouth to kiss him. The tug in her stomach is harder, sharper, and even though there's light now to see him by, she closes her eyes and uses her imagination. She uses her right hand to grip at his shoulder, goes with the sway as he keeps his balance, feels around the curve of his neck, then down against his chest. He's solid under fingers, hard, his muscles tighter than she might have thought; she likes it.

They kiss and explore (at least he's not rushing her into going further) and she gets bold and tugs his shirt over his head, smoothing her hands down his bare chest. He's breathing heavily but so is she and she feels the scratch of foil against her skin, reminding her (maybe asking her). She shifts back, tugs him towards her, down to the bed and he gets the point. But it's an awkward jig of their bodies so she gives it up, moves right back, gives him the room to angle himself to the bed. He turns and balances, then drops himself to the mattress, and while Gillian waits, she takes her clothes off (the bottom half). He's left the bathroom light on and the door wide open, so she can't hide in the dark anymore and she feels a little self-conscious as she realises he's watching her from his position propped up by the head of the bed (like he would do anything else but have a good look). She tries to ignore it, that prickly feeling of being naked in front of someone for the first time and crawls into his lap. She closes her eyes again and kisses him. She balances her hands on his shoulders, dropping back her weight to see where she is, to see what she can feel. His hands glide over her bare flesh, fingers of one hand, palm of the other. She feels exploration on her thigh, trailing up and she squirms away from it, wanting him to, but being too logical; she warns him about getting his cast dirty (irreparably wet) and he half smirks at her, his eyes dark in the dim light. She drops her head to kiss him slowly again, the tempo building gradually; he doesn't attempt to touch her there anymore but it doesn't stop her from exploring him, feeling and gauging, guessing with her eyes closed what he looks like exposed and under her hand. Cal gives a grunt and Gillian pulls back to look at him, to give him the chance to say what he wanted to say against her lips. His eyes are careful but lustful, as if he's asking her if she's ready to do this now.

Yes, she supposes yes, she is.

She gives him room to put the condom on, trailing her lips around his neck, leaning over him on her hands and knees. He squeezes her thighs when he's ready and she can feel the tight coil of his body in waiting, wanting. When she shifts back and can feel him, she almost hesitates: the point of no return. But he wants it so badly, she can practically taste the desperation and she wants it too, a sharp spike of desire (if not just to get it over with). She goes for it, talks herself into it.

Cal's tense and gripping at her harshly, pushing and quick; quick in every sense of the word. She's just starting to get into it (shutting up that nagging insecure voice and listening to her body instead) and it's over, heavy breaths held in the air and the shudder of his body beneath hers. She half forms a 'no' in her head to tell him to wait, that she's not ready, but she's too slow; she doesn't know until now the cues of his pleasure. She doesn't think to fake it. But she doesn't let on that she's disappointed; she thinks he might not notice anyway (he's distracted with himself). And if he does ask, she'll just tell him the truth.

He sits up against her and she holds him, keeps a slow tempo of her hips (she might get something out of it after all...), pressing her chest against his and soft kisses against his skin. When he comes back to her, he wraps his arms around her back (cast pressed against her spine), holding her tightly, and she thinks this might be the nicest part of it all. She slows to a still and they just hold each other for a long time, her face pressed against his neck, her breath puffing gently against his throat, unwinding slowly and tensely (she _didn't_ get anything out of it, but it almost doesn't seem to matter too much). It's dark here and it feels safe and it's so nice to be held but when he shivers one last time she pulls back, a slight smile for him, another kiss on the mouth and moves away. They fumble and fight to regain balance. Gillian finds her clothes and pulls them back on; she can hear Cal shift and adjust behind her. She slips back under the covers, settles on her side of the mattress and still Cal is not motionless beside her. She finally looks over, sees him trying to settle on his side, troubled by the bulky cast on his leg (he kicks her twice but doesn't seem to notice, and she doesn't protest). At last, he settles on practically lying on her and when she tries to shift and move away he holds up his left arm, an embrace open and waiting for her. She sees him try to form the words to ask her to cuddle with him but she works it out before he can voice them (saves him the embarrassment), and as she moves in closer (an obtuse angle to avoid the plaster on his leg, but still get close to his chest), she catches the relief on his face. That's ok, she wants it too. She tucks in against him; her arms folded up between them and rests her head against his cheek. He kisses her forehead. And it feels sweet and secure. Gillian closes her eyes, wonders where they go from here. It's not just this night, but all the others to come; it's all the things unsaid between them, and the feel of his body against hers.

**PJ**

Cal wakes early. His ass is numb and painful and when he shifts his weight a little to one side, the relief is incredible, and awkward. He's flat on his back again. He woke in the night, had to move, had to dislodge Gillian (he only really has one option for sleeping: on his back. But maybe now he can manage a few hours lying on his broken side). Before Gillian got here, those few days he was in the house alone and going out of his mind, he would get up and go to the couch to watch television. But the first night she came back from the hospital was the first night he stayed in bed; he didn't want to accidentally wake her and he tended to knock into things with his crutches and bung leg (especially if he was moving around in the dark). And as it turned out, it was fortuitous that he _had_ stayed in bed, because she came in. She is still here now, her breath soft and not strained on the pillow next to him. Even though it was scary that she was coughing up blood, Cal half thinks it was a good thing, because the extra treatment she got at the hospital has helped a lot already.

Cal tries shifting again, trying to get his weight somewhere that isn't dying but he's awkward and it's frustrating. He thinks about just getting out of bed anyway, but figures it's highly likely he's going to wake Gillian if he does (he's like a turtle trapped on its back), and he's already disturbed her twice in the night. He tries turning onto his left side a little but the weight of both casts tries to pull him back again. So he tries his right side a little (he can't make it all the way over without sitting up and throwing himself right over, and that would definitely wake Gillian) and its better (even if the pressure on his leg makes the point of the break ache heavily. He can take it for a few minutes until his ass isn't so numb, until the blood gets moving again).

"You ok?" A sleepy voice asks him in the dimness. It's far too early for the sun to be up and he hopes that it is at least morning, not the dead of the night. He left the bathroom light on and it still shines a rectangle of light across the bed.

"Yeah," Cal whispers back, keeping it short. So, he woke her anyway. He goes quiet, hopes she'll just go straight back to sleep, but she shifts towards him, even grabbing at his ribs to pull herself in closer. She also upsets his balance and he tips onto her. They fumble in the sheets and against each other until they settle again.

Gillian clears her throat but doesn't speak and Cal finds himself waiting to hear her voice. He wants to her to go back to sleep, but he doesn't. Now that he's awake again, he's awake. And he wants her to talk to him, distract him. When she keeps his mind occupied, he doesn't seem to notice how much his leg hurts, how badly uncomfortable he feels; how horrific the situation is.

Last night.

"You're awake?" Gillian notes and she doesn't sound half as asleep as she did a moment ago.

"Yeah," Cal whispers back, waiting to see where this is going.

Gillian turns her face towards him, squinting her eyes so they're practically closed. "What time is it?"

"Dunno," Cal tries again.

Gillian's face slackens into a dealthy unimpressed expression. "What time is it?" She asks again, as if she's convinced he does actually know.

"Uh, probably early," he almost winces.  
"Cal," she complains and shifts so she can lean against him to see the clock. She groans louder when she identifies the numbers and slaps at his chest again, "it's nearly ten o'clock."

Wow he totally misread that.

They both startle at the loud knock on the door. Gillian shoots him a look but he doesn't know who it is (or what she means by the look). She pushes off his chest and slides out of bed, stopping to readjust the clothes she's sleeping in (he looks, but there isn't much to see. She drops beneath the edge of the bed, crouching, not bending over to maybe do something with her feet?). Cal pulls himself to sit with his abdominal muscles (which is better than leaning on his arm) but Gillian is already out of the room before he even swings a leg from the mattress.

Gillian hurriedly straightens her shirt, finger combs her hair and picks the sleep from her eyes as she makes her way down the hallway. But she needn't have rushed, because the person at the door has a key, and they're letting themselves in. Her heart hammers for a second with surprise and fear but it's Agent Walker. He pokes his head into the frame, looks around and spots her and straightens up, coming in. "Oh good. Gillian. Where's Cal?"

"Asleep," she mutters, not thinking about the question, but more about the man's presence. They've been left to themselves for days, waiting, and now it occurs to her that the marshal showing up again probably means one thing.

"Oh," Walker says in return, and at least he doesn't make a show of looking at the time. Yeah, she gets it, they slept in and it looks lazy (but at least he didn't see them coming out of the same bedroom. Or worse. Coming _into_ the bedroom to find them. That would have been far more embarrassing). Walker comes in further and swings two empty, black, duffel bags towards Gillian. She takes them. Cal approaches behind her using the wall and one of the crutches. "Pack your things. We're leaving in an hour," the Agent tells them.


	7. Chapter 7

For two days, she didn't really think about it. But now that the craziness has died down, it's on her mind. They had sex just that once (three days ago now). And even though it wasn't the best, mind blowing (hardly close to be honest)... she's thinking about it. She had sex with Cal. _She_, had _sex_, with _Cal_. There was kissing and touching and... actual sex. It's kind of... mind boggling, really. That she and Cal did it. Yep. She slept with her friend. Which, to be honest, is not something she's done before (obviously, she's not slept with Cal before). She's not been the kind of woman who has a friend with benefits. And besides all of that she has no idea how Cal feels about all of this (they've been extremely busy the last few days. She's been falling asleep on the couch right after dinner), because they haven't talked about it. And she hasn't attempted to pay attention to comments, gestures, glances; instances. But she's thinking about him now though (about what happened), and the feel of him (tentatively remembering). Even if it wasn't the greatest for her (in _that_ way), it still kind of was. Because it was them. Because it was _finally_.

And she doesn't believe that was it.

But 'should she' or 'shouldn't she' makes her nervous. She's been busy setting up their new house (their now permanent residence, a different kind of nervous thought), so she's been distracted, but now that it's all stopped (the extremely tedious flight with a cramped up Cal, and unhelpful flight attendants; the car ride with a grumpy Cal, the hours of shopping with an exhausted Cal), she's back to thinking about Cal. Should she? He's lying on the couch now (staring at the wall, or reading; he does either) while she sort of maybe hides a little in the bedroom. The bedroom upstairs. There's just one on the second floor, with a bathroom, and another guestroom downstairs (and another bathroom) but Cal took one look at the stairs and passed, so he's set up down there and technically she's set up upstairs, but even though they haven't been... _sleeping_ together... She didn't have the heart to sleep up there alone. She slept in Cal's bed with him.

And he didn't try anything.

Which makes her think maybe she shouldn't. She's not sure. The signals are hard to read. He was all over her that night (confident), but now there's little interaction besides bitching at her about most things (he's tried, his leg hurts, his leg is itchy, his leg is heavy, how much longer is this going to take? Do they really need to have the couch and curtains match?). Yes, they've been busy (they picked out an entire house in a day and then had to put it together; quick decisions) and yes they're trying to get used to a new situation (they're married in this life. Yeah. Married.), but she kind of thought after they finally had sex he might be... a bit more interested, or more overt about his affection than usual. A bit more _Cal_-like about it. (Note she said finally. Because she really did start to think they were just a matter of time for the two of them). She's seen him hanging off other women and he is not restrained about it at all (bulging-eyed cartoon character practically panting after them and floating a foot off the ground).

Which makes her think maybe it was just sex for him. Because surely he would have indicated by now if it was something more otherwise. Maybe it _was_ just sex, and he got his rocks off, and he didn't notice (or say anything) about her not getting the same kind of enjoyment, because that wasn't really what he was aiming for (as in, he just wanted to get his leg over, so to speak, not start something with her). So maybe it really wasn't anything. But she can't quite believe that because, well, it's Cal, and even though she's only slept with him once, she's seen him with other women (wife and one-night-stands) and they certainly seem smitten enough to hang around (which means he really must be making them... enjoy being with him). They didn't seem to be complaining (and Zoe kept coming back for more even after they were long divorced). There must be something about him in the sack that makes these women want to try for a repeat performance. She really can't believe he'd be terrible in bed. He's too _confident_ for that (unlike, say, Alec, who was always a little insecure).

And then she goes back to: maybe she should. Maybe she should be the one to make a move. Who says he has to do it? Maybe he's waiting for her. Maybe she hasn't shown enough interest, given enough of the right signals herself (she's been distracted. She might not have. It's feasible. Maybe he thinks she's not interested after all). But surely he knows? She catches _herself_ staring at him sometimes. But maybe... She did get into bed with him the last two nights... but that was it. Ok so maybe she's being far too delicate. Maybe he's cautious (it is a big deal, considering their friendship/history). He didn't say anything but maybe he feels self-conscious or something about the fact that she didn't orgasm and he did (he'd really have to be a kind of selfish to not let that be a worry) and maybe she's being stupid. If she wants something, she should go after it, right? She's a grown up. She wants him. She doesn't need to hide in the bedroom moving around the scant amount of clothing she took with her from their temporary safe house (they were given money to set up the new house, and there is an allowance for clothing too; she just hasn't had a chance to go get some yet; she'll need work clothes. Can't bring herself to even ask Cal if he wants to go with her. Hasn't been able to face it yet).

Not that she has to go in there and jump his bones. She could just spend time with him. Talk to him. She doesn't have to hide (isn't afraid of him). Watching endless movies and reruns of old TV shows does her head in a little but... There are things to do, she supposes. She has a job interview the day after tomorrow (the marshals lined up a job for her too. She pretty much just has to show up and the job is hers). It's at a high school, as the new guidance counsellor, but it's been so long since she's done anything like that, that she may as well find out about the job description. Besides, she has to remember what her new name is (Smith. How original. They're allowed to keep their first names and she figures it's going to be tough enough as it is without also remembering to respond to a new salutation) and think up a plausible job history that doesn't involve eight years of working with Cal in deception, if she's asked (her qualifications and references are going to check out apparently, but it doesn't hurt to have an answer ready, in case someone asks her). She doesn't know what Cal's going to do. Nothing, probably, until his leg heals. But after that... she doesn't know. For now, she's going to be the breadwinner (she's ok with that, but is Cal ok with that? He's not overly chauvinistic, but, it's just that they've never been in this situation before. _They_ haven't, and that might be worth a conversation.)

They have new phones, new laptops, new tablets; a lot of new things. Gillian picks up one of tablets from the dining room table (which is also a bombsite of paperwork right now; the legalities of new identities) and heads for the living room. The house is small but comfortable (and it's paid for) on the edge of Fairview, in Boulder, Colorado. The neighbourhood is quiet and yesterday there were visitors welcoming them to the street (they brought muffins and a casserole). Gillian's already forgotten their names. No one has come today (so far), probably because it's raining heavily, and she's kind of glad she doesn't have to put a smile on her face and make pleasant small talk; she feels overwhelmed by it all.

Cal is stretched out on the couch. His only requirement in furniture was that it wasn't a weird colour (which turned out, was more complex than it seemed. They settled on dark brown. Which was a _compromise_) and he could lie full length on (Gillian isn't sure if that's a normal requirement or a new one, now that he has a broken leg). When she comes in he bends his left knee to give her room to sit, even though his cast is still in the way. Gillian puts a cushion over his ankle and leans against it, and when he doesn't flinch away or grumble about her hurting him, she relaxes into the position a little more. She puts her feet up on the coffee table and balances the tablet on her thighs. She swipes a finger over the screen to wake it up and taps to bring up a web page. She looks up her new school, looks over the faculty, a campus map, a street address. She google maps the location, checks the travel time from the new house; saves the page for later. Then she brings up email. And then she stops. Checks herself. She can't sign in.

"What?" Cal asks.

Gillian turns to him, a half smile (he was watching her?). "I was about to check my mail."

Cal smirks a little. "I keep thinking I must've missed phone calls."

"Right?" Gillian asks him amused. "It's too quiet."

"For us, yeah." He stretches out his left leg again, and rests it in her lap, not an ounce of self-consciousness, like they sit this way all the time. Gillian's now sitting in the frame of his shins (she does _not_ look at his groin) and she adjusts the tablet so it's resting on top of his leg. "What are you up to this afternoon?"

Gillian looks over at him. "Not sure. Why? Did you want something?" It looks like, for a second, that his face clouds, in anger or confusion, she's not exactly sure. But he shakes his head a little, tells her he was just asking. Which makes her think he wasn't 'just asking' at all. But he doesn't elaborate and she wonders what it was he was going to say or ask. She wonders why he seems to take a step forward, and then shies away again. Like them having sex. Big step forward... little steps backwards (until they're at the point where they were three days ago? Three years ago?).

"I did think about going to do some clothes shopping," she looks back to the tablet, decides to search for the local stores; saves her from having to work it out while she's also driving (they were given a car too, but Cal's still not allowed to drive).

"Oh yeah?" Now Cal is amused.

"Have to have something to wear to my interview."

"You nervous?"

Gillian shrugs. "Not really."

"Your shoulder tells me otherwise," Cal notes drolly.

Gillian tightens her mouth into a smile. "Maybe... It's going to be an adjustment."

This whole thing is an adjustment.

There's silence between them and they're both thinking about it; the possibility of their life now. Gillian figures there's no point in thinking about getting out of there; she needs to come around to the idea of forever. She can go back to counselling. She can play house like a pro. It doesn't seem as daunting or suffocating as she thought it might have been, now that she's here. And she's with Cal. He is at least a friendly face. He's not a stranger.

Gillian catches the tablet screen starting to fade and brings it back to life. She maps a path from their house to the mall (it's pretty straightforward, and not too far, so she commits it to memory. In her brain. Not on the tablet). "Do you want to come with me?"

"And watch you try on dresses?"

She supposes he's trying to be snide and offending, but it actually makes her feel squirmy inside; the idea of him seeing her naked (even though he didn't actually say that). Again. Seeing her naked, again. "Well," she counters. "Do you want me to get some things for you?"

Cal watches her for a moment, then pulls a thinking face. "Yeah maybe some socks and underwear." He sounds so casual as he speaks, like it's not a big deal at all. But then they both think about it (what does underwear relate to?) and he gets quiet and still. Gillian feels warm, hopes she isn't blushing and finds herself avoiding his eye; now she's not just thinking about his underwear. "Maybe I should come," Cal mumbles.

"Uh huh," Gillian agrees, leaning forward to put the tablet on the table. She drops her legs and Cal shifts his weight, so she goes with the momentum and gets up. "Then you can get whatever's comfortable."

Yep. Just made it worse.

She high tails it from the room, goes upstairs to change (she doesn't really need to, but it's a great distraction. Besides, if she's going to change in and out of clothes, she wants to wear something easy and comfortable. And she needs shoes). When she comes back down (in basically the same clothes anyway...) Cal is sitting up on the couch, his crutches nearby, ready to go by the look of it. They haven't done this before. Clothes shopping. (Or other domestic things, to be fair). He starts to get up so Gillian grabs keys and heads out, bringing the car down the drive, closer to the door. They haven't designated themselves keys yet; there's a house key and a car key each on two bare chains (stark reminders that this isn't their normal yet).

Gillian leans over to put the passenger seat right back as far as it will go. Even then, Cal has a hard time of hopping and shifting his weight, trying to swing his leg in. Gillian gets out to take his crutches and put them in the back seat and when she's back behind the wheel, she can tell his mood has plummeted. She'd offer to buy him a muffin, but those kinds of things don't make Cal smile (and she thinks, as she drives, that she's not sure she does know what makes him smile. If it's not work related.)

When they pull up at the mall, Gillian lets him out right by the door (no mobility parking for them) and retrieves his crutches. After she parks the car (a Ford Focus, so at least it's roomy) Gillian walks back to the entrance and finds Cal sitting inside the door in a complimentary store wheelchair, his broken leg stretched out on the raised leg rest. He gives her a little smirk when she approaches (and he looks sexy doing it), "Thought I should be comfortable."

"Suppose you expect me to push you around now too?"

"You do that now don't you?" Cal teases.

"Hey," Gillian protests on cue, walking behind him.

"Can't do it myself," he goes on, raises his broken arm and wiggles the fingers at her.

Gillian hoists her purse further onto her shoulder and gives the chair a shove forward.

**PJ**

Cal thinks he's going to be crazily bored and he's half regretting agreeing to go shopping with Gillian (aside from the spending time with her bit) but it's not nearly as painful as he thinks. Pointing out the underwear he wants while she reaches for it is almost amusing (because she seems so embarrassed. And he knows exactly why, but isn't sure what to do about it; make it easier for her or worse) and the fashion show of her trying on clothes is certainly pleasant to watch (a very good excuse for checking out her figure, especially because she blatantly asks for his opinion). And she's restrained. She makes quick decisions and picks out a dozen outfits easily (shoes are a bit more tricky) and several hours goes by quite painlessly. She buys him a muffin with a funny grin and he suspects there's something to it, but he hasn't figured out what yet.

It's not entirely easy, to be fair. There are moments (like with the underwear) when he thinks there's an awkwardness to them. They had sex three days ago, before they were completely uprooted (again) and moved clear across the country (again) to a house they didn't know, a city unfamiliar (another one). He thinks if they slow down for a second, Gillian might bring it up (the sex), but on the couch, when she was searching on the tablet, that would have been a good time for it (he was physically trapped there), and she didn't. She hasn't mentioned it at all, hasn't even dropped hints or started a conversation and Cal's not sure if he should be the one to go first. Maybe she's decided to completely ignore anything happened (maybe she regrets it). Which he... He doesn't know how he feels about that. Not great. But... He's not going to bring it up.

He's chicken.

When they get back to the house (their home), Gillian takes her bags upstairs. She moved in up there and even though Cal was desperate to go with her, the stairs would have been his undoing. And yet, to his relief, when it was bed time on the first night, even though she went upstairs to change and brush her teeth (and he was getting grumpy because he thought he was being abandoned again), she got into bed with him (it was a _huge_ relief). Nothing happened though. They went to sleep. Gillian goes to sleep easily (quickly), while Cal is left to think about _that_ night and what the hell he's going to do about it. He doesn't even have the courage to cuddle with her because turning onto his side is such an effort and whichever side he does lie on, his casts crush the unbroken parts of his body. But he wants to. And he has always been a fan of going after he wants.

It's just that it's Gillian.

It's not just sex, its feelings. And it's not that he's not sure about his feelings (he mostly is), it's just that he doesn't know how to tell her about them. He kind of needs Gillian to start, to go first, and he'll be in there, he'll tell her, but he doesn't want to go first (he's chicken. That's been mentioned right?). He's not sure how she feels and seeing as she's not talking about it, he's more nervous. The little hope he has feels vulnerable. His whole world feels like its teetering on the edge at the moment; too much uncertainty.

When Gillian comes back downstairs she offers to cook him dinner and he sits in the kitchen with her while she makes chicken and rice. It's raining heavily again and she comments about the timing. Because going out in the rain would have been doubly hard with his casts. They're tedious. And it hasn't taken long for them to get that way. They're heavy and pull on his body. Not to mention the water thing. And then there's the fact that he can't stand and help with dinner, can't go to Gillian when he wants to, can't hold her in bed, do things for her, romance her...

It does very much feel like she's waiting on him hand and foot.

By unspoken agreement, they watch the news. And it feels strange to suddenly let the outside world back in. There are floods in India and fires in Australia, and it seems as if nothing has changed. There's no big media blow out about their disappearance; the local advertisements are foreign. It suddenly occurs to Cal they're now in a completely different time zone to back home and he's not sure he can refer to home as home anymore. He takes the tablet from the coffee table where Gillian left it before and plays with it for a while, opening all the apps to see what they do (he's never really had a go on a tablet before) and then he finds himself snooping through the search history to see what Gillian was looking at before. He half expects clothing stores but he finds Boulder High School.

Oh.

Yeah.

She has a job to go to. Or a job interview, in the very least. Though Cal suspects if the marshals really were the life miracle workers that they seemed to be, the job was practically hers anyway and the interview tomorrow was just a formality. Cal had forgotten about that. And he also remembers: they're married. Sort of. They're legally... 'bound'. As in, the house is in both of their names, the car is in both of their names and they have a joint bank account (Gillian will work and Cal gets a stipend until he can work and it looks like it will be enough to live on. The house and car are paid for; part of their compensation for being the state's witnesses). Legally, they now have the same last name and all that is missing is a ring on their fingers and a marriage certificate. He's not sure how it works (but the marshals went ahead when neither he nor Gillian contacted them about a plan. He's not sure if they just assumed, or whether they wanted to keep them together). He figures by all outwards appearances they're married and meant to look married, but he hasn't asked Gillian how she feels about it, what she makes of it; whether she's going to tell people she's married. If she _wants_ to be married.

(That makes him feel throat dry, nauseous, with his balls all shrivelled up. Married to him.)

Why doesn't she bring it up? Isn't conversation and feelings her department? She's going to be a high school counsellor. Therapist is literally everything she's about.

Cal snoops through the Boulder High School website, having a look at the faculty and upcoming events. Then he takes a good long look at the counselling staff and some of the programmes the school runs in regards to the development of their students. It actually looks like a pretty good school (he'd be ok with sending Emily there. If it was... oh about five years ago). And their mascot is a panther, which is pretty cool. From the windows on the west side of the house, it's possible to see the Flatirons in the not so distant distance; those big table top mountains that border Boulder. Cal wonders if there are panthers there. Or mountain lions. And bears. Oh my.

The tablet comes with preinstalled games. He tries out a few, finds them frustrating. Then realises they've been sitting in silence for a really long time. He dips the tablet to look at Gillian. He's completely lost track of the time or what's on TV. She looks over at him when she senses him watching and gives a slight smile. "Ok?"

"Yep," he agrees. He's bored. And this is only going to get worse. He's going to need something to do; especially when Gillian goes to work. He's never been a stay at home anything and has no idea how he's going to cope with it. It wouldn't be as bad if he were able bodied and could go and do something, meet people, get a job himself (doing he doesn't know what; anything at this point. He's bored).

"Are you watching this?" Gillian asks after a few minutes.

Cal has been staring at the wall, daydreaming about jobs (what he might have done if he hadn't done a doctorate in lies; how what he does know about lies incorporates into an everyday job, like sales, ugh, or, as a TSA agent. Heh.) "No," he answers her.

"Wanna go to bed?" She asks it softly, carefully.

Cal meets her eyes. Does that mean bed to sleep or bed to have sex? He wonders what time it is. If it's early, she means sex. If it's late, then she probably just means going to sleep. She does have a job interview tomorrow. Ok, maybe even if it's early she means to go to sleep, because she has a job interview tomorrow. "Sure," Cal agrees (he's got nothing better to do).

Gillian gets up, hovers a little, but ultimately leaves him to get up on his own. He's glad for it, because he really is like an uncoordinated baby giraffe who has fallen on its back. He twists and manoeuvres and then has to shove his body weight up while relying on one hand; and it's really better that Gillian doesn't see that (or anyone, for that matter). When Cal finally makes his way down the short hallway to his bedroom, he notices Gillian isn't there. She might be in the bathroom across the hall though, so he works on taking his clothes off and throws back the covers and bounces himself onto the mattress. It takes effort to shift his broken leg into place. Not only is the cast heavy, but it's actually painful to put pressure on it, even if that pressure is lifting upwards, and not pressing downwards (but, he does concede, the pain is less than it was a week ago. More of a nuisance really). When he's settled, back resting up against the pillows and headboard, he's breathing heavier than normal (and he hasn't even lain down yet...).

And then Gillian comes in.

She's in a loose t-shirt and she doesn't immediately beeline across the room and run towards him, but she does approach without detour. He reaches up for her, can't help it, his hands a mind of their own and she grabs onto him as she kneels one leg on the mattress so she can swing the other over his body and straddle his thighs. She slips a condom into his left palm (so she found them when she put the groceries away then. He slipped them into the cart), the rough edges blatant against his skin, as she leans in to kiss him.

No doubt about this then.

Cal's stomach flips hard and he kisses her back carefully at first, half afraid that if he's too keen, it might scare her off. She frees her left hand from his right, pushing down on her knees so that she rises up above him (and he doesn't have to strain forward to reach her), curling that free hand around the edge of his neck and into his hair; she makes the kiss deeper. Cal feels blindly with his right hand, crushing his fingers against her side until he orientates her hip. He grabs her shirt, works his way under it to bare skin. He forgets himself, the pressure of her lips and the curl of her fingers, and brushes his palm against her waist. He forgets the cast completely until she flinches away from him. Hard.

"Sorry," he murmurs as her mouth pulls from his. He tries to follow her, doesn't want to lose contact. Gillian moves back far enough to give a brief smile and then she shifts closer again. A lot closer. She moves her body up, so she's just about in his lap. She kisses him again, her hands sliding around his neck, down the front of his bare chest. Condom in one hand, cast in the other, Cal feels a little helpless. And it's not just that his hands are full. With his leg, he can't take much control of position or pace. He takes the lead from Gillian. When she kisses, he kisses. When she breaks away, he tries to reach for as much of her as he can (jaw or neck, she does give him chances). He tries again with the fingers of his broken arm, brushing the tips against her skin, reminding himself not to grab, to not try and engage his palm which is encased in plaster. He thinks he does a better job of it than last time (there's less flinching and much more moaning. Moaning is good. He doesn't remember if there was moaning last time. He doesn't think there was, now that he thinks about it).

Gillian takes her own shirt off and it's heavenly. Her skin is smooth and soft and freckly. Cal remembers to use his fingertips as he traces around the edges of her body, exploring and memorising, feeling his way when he closes his eyes as she kisses him. He feels a bit like a gimp, holding onto the condom, but if he puts it down (or somewhere) he worries he might not find it again (and that would be embarrassing). But putting it on can be awkward too. If he does it too soon, then she might think that's all he's after. And if he leaves it too late, that might give the impression he's not really interested.

He takes his cue from Gillian. After shirt removal and more kissing, she explores his body. The first time they did this... It wasn't like this. This is more intimate and Cal actually feels more nervous, like he's not sure what he should be doing. She's the one that pulls back his underwear (turns out, she's not wearing any at all), uses her mouth on him a bit (fucking _jesus_), then takes his hand. She takes the condom back, and for a second Cal thinks she's going to do it herself, but she just opens it, gives it back to him, makes him do it. And then when he's ready she moves so she's over him. The anticipation is incredible and with his free hand he finally realises he can touch her. He smoothes up her thigh, watches her face for reaction (it's not bad) and guides her hip as she comes down gently on top of him.

If the world hadn't tipped on its axis right after the first time they'd had sex (having to leave the safe house. His world did also tip on its axis because they had sex), Cal figures he would have spent much more time thinking about it. This time, he doesn't quite remember the order of things, if Gillian sets the same rhythm and tempo as before. He remembers last time as amazing and this time just as damn good. It's more Gillian than him. He knows that. He's broken. Literally. And that constricts him. But Gillian makes it incredible. She is incredible. He _knows_ that. But this, sex, it makes him feel it more. They're closer, intimate, together, all those things and when it's over, and she moves away from him, and he can't turn to hold her tightly, that's what disappoints him the most. He doesn't just want it to be a physical thing. He wants all the intimacy that goes with sleeping with his best friend.

Because he loves her.

**PJ**

Cal wakes to an obnoxious electrical claxon. It takes a second to realise it's an alarm. It takes longer to realise where it's coming from, and by the time he's come to, Gillian is already reaching over to turn it off. Cal wonders 'what the hell' as he reaches out a hand for her. She sleeps on his right side, where all the plaster encases his limbs, but he's learning to use his finger tips, and brushes them against her bare lower back. She turns towards him, her face bleary through his sleepy eyes, but he can still tell she's barely awake herself. She comes in close, squishing his fingers against her stomach as she presses against his chest. She rests her head on the pillow next to his, her forehead against his ear. Cal closes his eyes, feels his heart rate start to settle a little and relaxes.

It's still dark, so it's early. He wonders how early. He wonders why Gillian set an alarm; it's not like they have anywhere to go. His foot is itchy. The one under the plaster. Of course it is. The foot is the worst. He can't bend his knee to bring it closer to his body. He tries wiggling his toes. He's not sure if that helps the itch, but he also pushed down on his leg so the pain distracts him for a while. It's been a week now, in plaster. One week down, five to go. It's been a long week. The next five are going to go slowly. And not just because he's in plaster. He really doesn't know what to do with himself. Stuck around the house all day. Bored out of his tree. He could build a tree house. Maybe when the weather gets a bit warmer.

Wait. Gillian _does_ have somewhere to go. Job interview. That's this morning. Cal forces his eyes open, feels the dreamy sleep falling away in sharp stages, making his brain feel tingly. He sits up a little, resting on his elbows; Gillian is gone. And the room is lighter. He looks over at the time. It's after ten.

Cal sits still for a moment, surprised. He fully went back to sleep. And he slept right through Gillian leaving. He didn't get to wish her good luck. Cal throws back the covers, manoeuvres himself out of bed, and hops it across the room to the bathroom. Then he hops down the hall to the living room, looking for his new phone. The thing is huge. He remembers when cell phones were bricks (he didn't have one though) and got progressively smaller. Then they started getting bigger again (although flatter. Size of a brick but not nearly as cumbersome). There are no messages (why would there be? no one but Gillian and the marshals have this number). Cal sits heavily on the couch, still in his underwear (pushed aside last night, not removed entirely. Too much work getting them down over his cast), and pulls up the text menu. He taps out a message to Gillian, going with 'Howd it go?' instead of a belated 'good luck' (he feels badly for missing it though). He can't remember what time the interview was. Nine, he thinks. So it might be over by now. Who has an interview for more than an hour?

There's no immediate response so Cal puts his phone down again. Then he picks it up and checks that the volume is up on the messages (because he hasn't actually checked before now). It is. He plays with the ringtones, wastes time. When he's getting dressed a message comes through. It's from Gillian: _good. Be home soon._ There are smiley emoticons. Cal figures she's pretty happy about it (the interview? Or that he text her?). She doesn't tend to send emoticons otherwise. He's not sure they've gone much beyond polite business texts. Occasional friendly texts but... that was before they started sleeping together.

Soon means half an hour. And Cal is getting antsy about it. She said soon. She should have said half an hour if she was going to be half an hour. He gets up to stand in the window and watch the street. He spots their neighbours across the road taking groceries out of the back of an SUV, remembers they brought food over. Maybe he should go say thanks. Make friends. See what their deal is. It's something to do.

It'd just be something to _do_.

But Gillian pulls into their driveway and Cal watches her from the window instead. She looks nice. Dress, shoes, hair and make-up done. She looks like the classy, attractive woman he remembers from DC. Not the fire scarred, damaged woman coughing up blood. Hard to believe that that was only a handful of days ago. It feels like so much longer. When Gillian heads for the front door (she's got shopping bags in her hand. So she went shopping. She could have just said she was going shopping, instead of making him wait) Cal hops his way back to the couch. He picks up the tablet, pretends to be engrossed in one of the games preloaded (he doesn't get the game though. Can't figure out how to make the little character leap far enough over that pit and not impale itself).

"Hi," Gillian greets brightly from the door.

"Hey," Cal answers distractedly. Purposefully nonchalant. He hears the rustle of plastic coming closer, the pointed thud of her heels on the carpet.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Cal drops the tablet to his lap so she can't see the screen over his shoulder. He looks up at her, catches a flicker of something (disappointment maybe?) before she gives him a smile. Damn, she really does look good. Excitement makes Gillian attractive; that bright easiness about her. He feels it drawing him in and it makes him want to hug her, get physically closer to her, kiss it out of her so he can have some.

"Are you hungry?" She raises the plastic bag. "I brought lunch."

Cal blinks for a second. "It's not even eleven," he answers (actually, by now, it might be).

"So?" Gillian smiles again and turns on her heel, heading for the kitchen.

Cal shifts his ass to the edge of the couch and shoves himself up using the arm of the furniture. He hops a few paces, looks around for his crutches. He swears they move of their own accord (he can't see them). He hops the short distance to the wall, makes the mistake of putting is broken leg down. He almost cries out in pain.

"Did you have breakfast this morning?" Gillian calls from the kitchen.

So she's keeping tabs on him now? He's allowed to not eat if he doesn't want to. He doesn't answer her. He hops a few more steps to the door and almost runs into Gillian. "Oh," she gives him a smile. "Thought you might want these," she gives him the crutches. Cal almost scowls. Yeah, he feels like a petulant child. A frustrated child who's being mothered (he doesn't like it when any woman tries to do that. Didn't like it even when it was Zoe.) He doesn't want her to. Not when they're... sort of together... and it's not meant to be that way. He's meant to be looking after her because that's what... really? That was it? He was pissed off because he couldn't look after her? (Like a man is supposed to?)

Gillian doesn't hover to watch him awkwardly make his way into the other room. He's still annoyed (annoyed with himself _and_ the situation) so when he comes in, she takes one look at his face and turns away abruptly, avoids his eye while she finishes setting out their meal. Cal makes his way to the breakfast bar. The stools are the right height for him, so he doesn't have to leap up or drop down, he can just slide over and sit, his broken leg not cramped under a table. He puts the crutches to the side. Gillian sets tea down in front of him. Tea. Not a soft drink (like she has), or juice, or a milkshake even. She knows him.

The silence is heavy and Cal knows it's all him. He wants to tell her he's sorry. It's not her. It's him. (And that he can't seem to help it.) But he doesn't, can't, doesn't know the words. Hasn't done it before. Isn't so sure a simple 'sorry' is really going to cut it. Sorry is for accidentally standing on someone's toes. Proper apologies require more than that. And Gillian deserves the best.

(If she deserves the best, then why does he continue to act like a jerk towards her?)

So Cal moves on to at least starting a conversation. Any conversation at all. This time, he had a really good one. "So it went all right then?" He looks up to meet her eye as she's wiping her hands, finished with meal preparation. Her face is neutral as she thinks about the question, then gives a slight node and confirms that it did. She moves around him to sit on his left side. On Cal's plate is a toasted club sandwich and fries. It smells really good though and he can see the egg yolk is oozing, like it's still hot and the cheese has melted a little. When he picks up a chip, it's hot enough in his mouth to make him a little cautious.

Gillian essentially killed his conversation, he realises. She does that, he thinks, when she's mad at him (not in a sulking child kind of way. She just goes quiet, like she can't be bothered with him. Which might be entirely fair enough. He's more likely to sulk like a child). Not just this week gone, but before then too. Since last year, when he first met Wallowski (and that whole thing happened), she's been quieter, less cheerful, stringent with a smile. He's just starting to think that might have been his fault. She didn't abruptly change after she left Alec.

He really is a jerk bag.

Cal has to pick up his sandwich with his left hand. He worries about getting the cast dirty (and stale egg and cheese tucked in against his skin and the plaster sounds horrendous already). He takes a bite and it's good. It's a toasted club sandwich, but it's still really good. Bacon and aioli and all the naughty things, like cheese and butter. Gillian's having a Panini, which she manages to eat delicately (Cal watches out of the corner of his eye). "This is really good," Cal tries when he swallows. He turns his head a little to actually see her face and her eyes slide over to his, but they're not completely dead anymore. She gives him a slight smile around her mouthful and swallows it down quickly to answer him.

"Thought we might try some local cuisine."

"This is local?"

"Yeah," Gillian tells him.

Well it would have to be for her to get the food here and it still actually be hot.

"It's good," Cal repeats.

Gillian smiles again, takes another polite bite of her Panini.

"I didn't have breakfast," Cal adds, finally answering her. Gillian doesn't respond.


	8. Chapter 8

The day after the interview (which she doesn't elaborate on, and Cal doesn't ask again), Gillian goes over to the neighbours'. She takes back their casserole dish and Cal watches from the window (he refused to go. Yeah it's a shocker) as she knocks on the door and is welcomed in (he feels like he should have binoculars and a notebook). She's gone nearly an hour and when she comes back she reports on what she found out (like she's still working for the Group). Mary-Anne and Steven. Fifties. Homemaker and web designer. Two teenagers; boy and girl; both at Boulder High (where Gillian's starting work on Monday); sophomore and a senior. Cal barely musters enough of a response (he figures they're not going to be there long, so why should he even care to get to know them?) and after talking for a while and getting minimal interest from him, Gillian gives it up (she can't be bothered pushing shit up hill).

They spend long hours sitting around. There is less TV watching and more internet trawling. Cal's so tempted, so, so, so tempted, to check up on the Group through the website (or worse, log in and literally check up on them through the cameras). He Google satellites his house (still standing) and Emily's dorm (doesn't spot her walking around...) and then sets up a new email account, adding the addresses he remembers (Emily's and Gillian's. Too much reliance on technology); he'll probably never end up using it (if they're going home soon, he can just go back to using his old one. Which has probably overflowed with messages by now. Gillian probably isn't even going to use her old account anyway, but that is the one he knows).

On the third day, the sun comes out brightly and Gillian suggests getting out of the house. Cal is reluctant (the idea of walking around tires his body before he even attempts it) but she seamlessly suggests a drive (not a walk), around the neighbourhood, to at least see where they live now. Cal agrees to that (because she has this optimistic expression on her face that he doesn't much relish destroying). But he doesn't like it (he doesn't want to get to know the neighbourhood. He just wants to go home). What would be great is if Gillian suggested talking about the case (because they still haven't done that) and Cal's not ever sure of when is the right time to bring it up. When it's on his mind, there seems to be something else going on with them or with Gillian (and he does at leave have the good sense to know when a bad time is).

They drive around the streets of their neighbourhood and look at the houses (Cal stares out the window, but he's not really looking. He doesn't care much and Gillian only breaks the silence intermittently), then they venture further, making bigger turns to get further away from their house, then end up taking the path up the Flatirons. The view is impressive and the weather is so nice and Cal does grudgingly admit to himself that it is good to be outside; to be doing something different. Sun, slight breeze, fresh air, the way Gillian stands close (far too close. Not complaining).

Binoculars would have been good.

As they stand and look out over the city of Boulder, Gillian rests her head on his shoulder. It's not easy to do, seeing as he's not actually standing at his real height (but at least he's not leaning over his crutches. That would have been quite comical), but she does it anyway and after a moment he works up the courage and reaches for her fingers (because he feels her hand knocking against his cast and hand a few times and think it might be a hint). He brushes her thigh before he contacts skin (not complaining about that either), hooking the digits of his broken hand around hers awkwardly. She readjusts, smoothing slender fingers against his until they fit together better. And it's nice. Really nice. They're standing together holding hands in the sunshine.

Cal starts thinking about them but there isn't much to say really, when he gets down to it. They were friends (are friends. They _are_ friends). There might have been... something sort of developing before all of this. Now they are married (sort of/kind of/maybe) and sleeping together (sort of/kind of/maybe). But there is not much else. No dating or flirting or falling in love.

Gillian. Falling in love.

Cal is already in love with her. He thinks. No, he knows. He is. He used to think if he slept with her he'd get over it, but he couldn't be sure. Maybe it's too soon to tell, but so far, he's not over her; he wants more (but doesn't know how to ask for it). But he's also scared that she doesn't feel the same way and right now she gives mixed messages (mostly indifferent, uninterested kind of messages). There's hand holding and sleeping together in the same bed and then there's the _sleeping_ together bit. But she doesn't talk about a relationship or what's happened or... how he makes her feel or anything like that. He's half afraid to say something in case it's too much pressure (how awkward would it be if it were too much too soon and he ruined it? What with them living together and having nowhere else to go). And he's certainly scared she's going to stop (that she might one day, just get over it; over him). It's complicated and he's making it complicated because Gillian's making it complicated and he doesn't know what to do.

When they go home, they have sex. Gillian instigates it and then she cooks him dinner.

**PJ**

Gillian sets the alarm on her phone for 5.30am the following morning. She had good intentions to wake progressively earlier for a few days to get used to going from waking after ten to before seven. But that didn't quite happen. She set the alarm. The alarm woke her. She rolled over to turn it off and just went back to sleep. Tomorrow's going to be painful. But it's going to shock her system into a new routine. And there's not much else she can do about that now. Gillian puts her phone on the bedside table and turns over to face Cal. He's shuffling his way under the covers, little sections at a time, not too much pressure on his breaks as he goes. It would be comical if she didn't know how frustrated he was by it (_a lot_ of bitching). The other day he announced it was one week down, five to go (it feels like it's going to be a long five weeks to go).

Gillian waits for Cal to settle and they lie together for a moment in the light from Cal's bedside lamp. The last handful of days have been an odd limbo. Really, in a new house, there isn't very much to do now that they've unpacked. There's no cleaning (they don't even have enough dirty clothes at this point to do a load of laundry) or yard work. They haven't even spent enough time with the furniture to think it might work better in a different arrangement in the room. Dragging Cal out of the house is tedious and effortful, and yet sitting around does nothing for her (and she's never been one to have something to do with every second of her day). Like Cal, Gillian spends time on the internet, but that only goes so far as well. While she's nervous about starting a new job, she's also grateful to be able to get out of the house and do something (especially because it means she can get on with her life as it now stands).

Cal turns his head on the pillow to look at her.

And then there's Cal. Aside from the grumpiness (and the bitching, which at times, has really gotten on her nerves, despite her best efforts to give him a break), she's kind of liked the undivided time with him (usually he's run off to look into something). Of course, there's also the making out bit, which is really quite nice. And the sex. Which is not mind-blowing (nope, still not). But it's not _bad_ (if it were, she wouldn't really be enticed to go back for more). And she thinks about it quite a bit. At the end of the day, it's Cal and she does like him and she has, before now, thought about more. She's attracted to him. He's a good kisser. She likes his body. She _likes_ him. She can't help but think they just have to practice to get better at it. It's awkward with his broken arm and leg. She can excuse it a million ways to Sunday. The truth is, if she didn't want to, then she wouldn't. And that's all there is to it.

"Want the light out?" Cal asks.

"Sure," Gillian agrees and then shoves herself up to lean over him to put it out herself (without him having to ask). She's not shy at all about leaning all over him (she's given up wearing much clothing to bed, now that she's better, so there isn't really much between them). She feels his hand at the back of her thigh, brushing briefly before resting lightly on her assn (she's kind of proud of him). She pushes into the touch, makes it more obvious so he's really grabbing a handful (he is still, even after six days, cautious). She puts the light out and pulls back, guesses where his head is and plants a kiss. She thinks she gets his temple and he gives a little huff of a laugh that makes her smile. He uses both hands to frame her waist and Gillian uses a hand to find his mouth. She presses her lips against is (can feel him still smiling) in a sloppy chaste kiss (that gets more of his cheek really), then settles her weight against the mattress, so she's still leaning over him (but her back isn't stressed), and tries again. She really does like kissing him. He's warm and thorough (when _she_ initiates making the kiss a little more heated) and it makes her feel tingly inside (it's just a shame that she doesn't _get there_, when they take it further. And to be fair, she can't blame that on him. Not all of it).

Cal doesn't take it further and neither does Gillian (she does have an early start tomorrow). She eases off the kiss and moves to lie next to him. It sounds like he sighs a little. "Good night," Gillian offers.

"Night," Cal repeats.

Then it feels like Gillian lies awake for hours. When she does drift off, she feels Cal shifting around, that see-saw of his weight to stop his ass from getting numb, that keeps her in a shallow restlessness. And of course, just as she actually gets into a deep sleep, her alarm goes off. With a groan she moves to turn it off, her head pounding in time with her heart (she hopes that isn't going to be an all day thing). Cal gives a grumble from his side of the bed after Gillian shuts the noise off. Like last time she set the alert, Gillian moves in against him, resting her head on his pillow right next to his face. She figures he's not really awake and closes her eyes to steal a few more minutes while he's still unconscious. He's nice when he's like this.

**PJ**

Cal's not sure what the hell is going on. It feels like de ja vu in a dream. That electrical ringing that cuts through his sleep, he's heard it before. And the weight of Gillian at his shoulder is like last time too. He settles his head so it's resting against hers, something in his heart that's excited and relaxed at the same time. It feels good, being with her like this; the darkness is silent and still. They lie together for a moment (could be minutes or more, Cal's not sure. It's dark and he doesn't really know what time it is, let alone which day; or why Gillian set an alarm. To get up?). Gillian stirs at his shoulder, like she can follow his train of thoughts. He feels her push herself up, remembers that she's practically naked (tank top and underwear only these days) and opens his eyes a little. But it's dark and he can't see anything except a vague outline of her body. He can't even see if the blanket has slipped away from her chest.

"Go back to sleep," Gillian murmurs and starts to move away.

Cal grabs her arm, jamming the cast against her bone. She winces and he's apologetic, withdrawing again. "Don't go yet," he croaks.

"I gotta get up and shower," she sighs.

"Just," Cal tries. He needs to think faster. "One more minute."

Lame.

But Gillian settles. He remembers now that she's starting her new job, and he's not going to see her all day. A long day (it's going to be a _long_ day on his own). Last time she snuck out and he missed having the morning with her (she actually tends to sneak out of bed before him most mornings, but at least when he gets up himself, she's there waiting for him). She settles in a slightly different position and as Cal turns his head to... check on her? (find that sweet spot he had a moment ago) he finds his nose brushes against hers. She gives a hum and it stirs something inside him. He re-angles his jaw, moving in to where he thinks her mouth might be. He's not far off and she shifts to align their lips. It's sweet but when Gillian pulls away a little, Cal follows her. She makes it deeper though, braving it past his lips. Her hands are on his body, smoothing, tracing, torching, teasing. He's awake now. He brings his left hand to her jaw, cups the bone, moves her head where he wants it; feels a little in control. But the hand beneath the covers undoes him and he feels that desperate tug inside him that wants him to get his leg over. He literally can't. He's at Gillian's mercy. And she reads him so well. Just as he's starting to think he's going to have to ask her (he can't make her, can't physically suggest anything), she pulls abruptly away from him.  
"Wait," he gruffs, grasping at air.

She's already half way across the room. "Just a second," she tells him, opening the door. The street light silhouettes the hallway, and Cal can see the silvery figure of Gillian going across the way. He shifts, pushing himself to a sitting position, ignoring the sharp stabs of pain from his broken arm as he puts pressure on it. This is already his least favourite position, him sitting and Gillian straddling his hips, but it's pretty much all he's got. He wonders if they could try other positions, if he could even... but just thinking of the logistics of his broken leg and two bodies...

Gillian's back, and she leaves the door open, so that the light makes the room just that little bit easier to see. To at least see her. Cal flicks back the covers, invites her, and she complies. She crashes her mouth against his and Cal goes for it and wraps his broken arm at her back, tugging her in close (hoping the long expanse of the plaster will hurt less than the rounded edges of it). Gillian goes with the movement, her other hand going back to teasing him exploringly. There are no awkward pauses. They kind of know what they're doing now; now that they've had the practice.

Cal feels the sharp edge of the condom packet poke against his wrist, turns his hand to take it from her fingers, and Gillian waits while he puts it on himself, her body still bent over his (so he's knocking knuckles against her pelvis as he works and she watches). It feels so much more fluid though, the two of them, like they've done this before (well, they have) and know each other (starting to at least get familiar). Gillian makes noises in her throat. Dirty, hot, moaning kind of noises, which just makes Cal feel more excited. He pushes up with his hips, the pressure down on his legs, and winces against the pain. Gillian stops immediately (much to Cal's frustration). "What?" She whispers. "Did I?"

"No you, me," Cal mutters. He brings a hand to her hip, encourages her to move again, his blood pounding. "Go."

He's not doing that again. Two reasons. The first: it hurts. The second: Gillian stops.

Gillian does go again. Cal gets braver with his left hand, smoothing up her body (loves the way her muscles feel working under her skin, on top of him), brushes a thumb over her breast. Gillian arches into his touch and Cal feels emboldened. He tries it with his right hand too; so long as he sticks to his fingertips only, she doesn't complain. He gets a moan for his efforts, definitely feels as though he's getting the hang of this; the feel of her. He tugs her shirt up, but she has to help him take it off her. Gillian drops her head, bites at his neck; she's getting the hang of him too. He grins into her ear, tries a few nips at hers, checking for a reaction. He gets a good one (she gives up on his neck to let him), so he takes her lobe between his teeth (not easy when her whole body is moving). He brings up his left hand to her head, holds her in place, tries again, teases with his tongue. His reward? She rides him harder.

She knocks his hand loose so he switches to holding on. He attempts another push of his hips (it's early morning, he's still slow) and it hurts just as badly as last time. But it makes Gillian lean forward into his chest and the change in angle takes him to the brink. Noises appear in his own throat and Gillian matches them, her breath huffing against his skin. It feels like they're there together so he lets go, his body in a violent shudder that feels nothing but ecstatic.

Cal feels Gillian drop to the bed next to him. He shifts his arm out of her way and again tries to turn over to cuddle her. He struggles for a second with it, then gives up. Because she's naked, there's nothing really to grip and tug on and it's an awkward angle. In half a minute she's pushing herself up and away from him, murmuring something about having to get ready. Yeah he gets that she has somewhere to go this morning; first day of a new job and all that. But he is a little thrown off, or put out, or unsettled by the fact that she can just get up and go. Unless sex in the morning really sets her up for the day. It makes him feel warm and a little sentimental (wouldn't mind that cuddle; wouldn't mind if Gillian wanted it too. She hasn't initiated so far).

Hang on.

Cal shoots out his right arm, crashing his fingers into her upper arm before she can move too far away from him. She turns her head, surprised, to meet his eyes and frowns. Cal has a sinking feeling in his stomach before the words even spill out of his mouth. "Did you?" He says with an implied tone.

Gillian is like a deer in the headlights. She knows exactly what he's asking (she even blushes a little, though he doesn't see, because it's still dark). Her lips part slightly (he doesn't see that either, those little details, but he senses her hesitation), and no words come out. He thinks about it for a second. The handful of times they've been together. He wasn't really expecting... dramatics, but usually he gets a least some kind of compliment, some indication that a woman had a good time with him; it's usually obvious.

And there has been a distinct lack of it with Gillian.

"You didn't come at all did you?" Cal accuses.

Gillian tugs her arm free and gets out of bed.

"Gill?" Cal sits himself up, pushing down on his broken arm too harshly, making sharp slivers of pain shoot to his elbow. "Tell me."

"Cal," she tries, her tone full of warning and impatience. "I need to go shower." She's pulling on a shirt and already walking around the door. It doesn't matter. He doesn't need her to say the words. He doesn't even need to see her face to know: she didn't.

She didn't.

He fucked it. And not in a good way.

Gillian escapes the room, leaving the door open (which Cal totally takes as a goddamn invitation) and he can hear the soft thuds of her feet as she goes stairs. That's mean, going upstairs; she knows he can't follow her. Easily. But damnit if he's going to let her get away with not talking about this, explaining herself, explaining what happened (and where he went wrong). He doesn't want to be arrogant, but he's not had a complaint before.

Or maybe that's the point. It's just that no one's complained?

Nah, he can tell. He can always tell when it's faked (deception expert, remember?), and he can usually tell when a woman he's with might need... a little... extra to get there. But he's pretty sure he's never not noticed when it doesn't happen. Which means he just wasn't paying attention this time. And that might even be worse.

(Oh god. _Every_ time?)

Cal hooks himself out of bed, his foot landing in something soft on the carpet. He picks it up with his toes until he can reach with his hand and tosses it to the bed. He hops the short distance to the dresser, finds a shirt in the second drawer down, has to lean a hip against the furniture to put it on. If he listens carefully he can hear the water running upstairs (at least she didn't lie about the shower bit. It wasn't just to avoid him. Probably should shower if she's going to work). When he stands still, not only can he hear the water, he can feel the devastation in his chest; he's shocked and appalled.

When he's dressed, he works his way across the room, down the hall, leaning on the wall, stepping on his broken leg (winching because it fricking _hurts_) and finds his crutches in the living room. Then he looks up at the stairs. There's a streetlight situated to light up parts of the house and he can see enough to know its daunting (and he probably shouldn't try to even entertain going up in the dark). He could always wait for her to come down again; she's going to have to eventually. He wonders what the time is now, and how much of it he can waste on a conversation she's obviously reluctant to have; there will be time wasted on just the argument of discussion in the first place. Might be better to get started as soon as possible. Because she _is _leaving the house at some point and he's in no position to stop her.

What he doesn't get, as he leans on the crutches and grabs the banister, moving his left foot up first, is why she didn't say something, or tell him, or just... make it obvious for him... after the first time.

Why didn't she say?

**PJ**

It didn't quite bother her until this morning. There have been times in her life when sex wasn't the mind blowing experience she knew it could be (and then there were times when it really was). Sometimes it took a while for a couple to get to know each other, figure out what made them tick. And she likes Cal, she really does; she's attracted to him in physical and non-physical ways. It's the non that drives her to him, and then when their bodies come together it's all the physical aspects. It just doesn't seem to culminate in... that mind blowing bit. Admittedly, she hasn't been trying to work out why (no long thoughtful internal discussions), was kind of just going with it (maybe trying to be a bit more flexible, seeing as her entire life has turned upside down and if she dwells on it, she's going to start falling apart). She had faith that they were going to figure it out. Or that it was just going to fall into place.

She didn't see Cal's face clearly downstairs a moment ago, when he asked, when he finally brought it up, but she absolutely could tell, without a doubt, that he was hurt (and maybe surprised too, like he has literally only just noticed). Which just makes her feel worse about it. And now that attention has been called to the fact that she hasn't had an orgasm (and if she counts the months before she even started sleeping with Cal, it's been _too_ long), her body is craving it. It's tingly and weak and she's thinking about having a go herself under the warm water (if she rushes through washing her hair, because screwing around with Cal this morning has put her behind schedule). Keeps thinking about it. Keeps thinking about Cal. Keeps thinking about...

"Gillian."

She jumps, her heart pounding with the fright, the shampoo bottle leaping out of her hand to clatter against the wall and drop at her feet, knocking painfully into her ankle as it skirts around and then settles by the plug hole. She puts a hand out instinctively to steady herself against the shower wall. "Cal!" She admonishes. "You gave me a fright." Hand on heart for added effect.

At the edge of the curtain, Cal's head is watching her (his eyes are all over her, to be honest and there's something in his expression that makes heat flood low in her stomach. She almost reaches for him, but his eyes come back to hers and the moment passes). "We should talk," he says and he does not look happy at all (actually, he also looks a little flushed).

"I don't really have time right now," Gillian tries. She wants to get on with her shower, but is self-conscious enough with him watching her while she's naked without also bending over to retrieve the shampoo.

"Too bad," Cal grumps and disappears. Gillian hears the toilet lid bang and is horrified to think he would actually go while she was in the room. She pulls back the curtain a little to look (not _look_ look, but just to see if her suspicions are true), but Cal is simply lowering himself to sit on the closed lid (all awkward with his broken leg. How did he even get up the stairs?)

Gillian stands under the water, silent while she thinks. She really doesn't know what to say about it. It just didn't happen and... she likes him enough for that to not be a deterrent. Maybe she should tell him that? But would it be tipping her hand? Because when it comes to Cal she just feels so reluctant to give him any kind of signal that any of it means something to her when he doesn't give her much of an indication of the same (and she really doesn't want to be pouring her heart out only to be rejected. On a normal day, that would be bad enough, but now that they're trapped here together...). Cal doesn't look like he wants to talk about it (but he did follow her up here, with all the effort that must have taken) and he's not exactly leading the conversation now. Gillian bends for the shampoo bottle (wonders if he can see her through the curtain) and works shampoo into her hair while she waits. If he wants to talk about it, then he can start.

"So you haven't... this whole time?"

He sounds small. And it's disarming (there's a part of her that wants to comfort and make it better for him).

Gillian's just working up the courage to admit she hasn't when Cal goes on. "How come you didn't say?"

She doesn't think, she just speaks: "How come you didn't notice?"

Touché. But she doesn't feel great about it, because really, how come he didn't notice? Is he _that_ self-absorbed?

Silence.

Gillian rinses the shampoo out.

"I guess that's fair enough," Cal's voice comes over the water, just loud enough to be heard but not overly voluminous; he's not happy. It makes Gillian feel bad; his words. She didn't really mean to throw that at him (but now she's really thinking about it. Is he that self-absorbed and she's never noticed?)

"It doesn't matter," she tries.

"Kind of does Gillian," Cal counters.

"It's not your problem," Gillian adds, seriously trying to let him off the hook for this (she is a fan of taking responsibility for her actions. She didn't say anything. And besides that, it takes two to tango).

"Kind of is," Cal repeats.

Gillian puts conditioner in her hair. She does feel better for being able to go to the supermarket and get the brand she actually likes. It smells familiar; reminds her of being at home. Her stomach is nervous with this new job. It's not that she thinks she can't do it; just fear of the unknown. Like everyone else.

"It's my," Gillian starts to raise her voice over the water but Cal cuts her off.

"Kind of got a reputation to uphold," comes back immediately, like he didn't hear her starting to speak.

It actually makes Gillian smile.

And then she frowns because there might have been the possibility that he might actually care about her (her experience, how she feels), but now it sounds like he's just worried about himself. Which, she she's trying not to convince herself, was half the problem. But she has a tough time with that kind of logic; the evidence just doesn't point to it (the other women...) At the moment, he's a little disadvantaged (and she figures not really up to his usual standard), and so goes back to: considering she was (is) doing most of the work, it wouldn't be unreasonable to suggest that it was (is), in fact, _she_ who was (is) doing a poor job. Gillian folds her arms in front of her abdomen, faces towards him, the shower curtain between them (she can't see him, so maybe he can't see her).

"Just forget about it," Gillian suggests, because she doesn't much want to have this conversation anymore than he clearly does (and she's really not sure which argument she's leaning towards, or should be listening to).

There's a beat and then Cal comes back with: "I'm not going to."

But he doesn't elaborate and despite a spike of reaction in her stomach, Gillian doesn't know what else to say (she doesn't need this right now). They've been sleeping together; she hasn't had an orgasm. Not the first time it's happened to her. What else is there to add? Gillian rinses the conditioner from her hair and turns the water off. She hears the creak of the toilet lid as Cal shifts his weight and she grabs for her towel with the curtain still closed. She dries off a little, wraps the cloth around her body and then steps out. Cal is still there, waiting, almost expectant (like he wants her to solve this, like she knows how); his eyes meeting hers (he's not ashamed then).

Gillian moves to the bedroom. She sees the time, finishes drying herself off quickly and is pulling on underwear as Cal comes in (which makes her rush). He's moving slowly (slower than usual, even with the crutches), affords her a once over (he's subtle though), before going to the bed and throwing himself down heavily. Gillian glances over at him and sees his eyes closed. She wonders if he's started sleeping properly yet, because if he hasn't, she woke him up probably before he got any decent sleep last night (and if they want to talk about not noticing, then she could be just as guilty as he is).

She goes to the wardrobe and pulls out the shirt she pre-determined she would wear today. She slips into a grey skirt and gets out the sensible dark heels (misses her Louboutins. Like crazy) that will go with the outfit. Cal doesn't say anything as she dresses, she doesn't know if he watches her (she doesn't check. Not sure if she wants him to or doesn't. Doesn't know how to think or feel about any of this; just needs to get through this day: her first day of a new job). She plugs her hair dryer in and stands in front of the full length mirror. The white noise drowns out any conversation either of them might have attempted and Gillian relaxes a little as she manages to forget about him. She needs a watch, she muses to herself, as she brushes and dries her hair as straight as she can manage it.

When she switches the device off again, the silence is deafening.

**PJ**

Cal's just working up the courage to speak when Gillian turns off the hair dryer but she leaves the room, so he waits for her to come back (though he's not confident that she will). He hears her in the bathroom, finishing her hair probably and doing her make-up. He closes his eyes while he waits (pictures her the way she used to be, not the way he's gotten used to since the incident) and figures he fell asleep when Gillian came back for her shoes (or, she just went downstairs and left him there). He doesn't know if she tried to talk to him or not (figures not) because he doesn't see her again until that evening. He sleeps on her bed for several hours and wakes disorientated and groggy and uncomfortable. He limps his way downstairs (which is a lot scarier than going up), feeds himself and then wastes the day away waiting for her get home (feeling stupid and inadequate. Can't even have a conversation with her, let alone make her orgasm...). When she does come home, they act like nothing has happened. Which at first, Cal doesn't mind too much, seeing as he doesn't know what to say to her anyway. She doesn't seem interested in an apology, even though he really does feel bad about the fact that she hasn't... since they've been sleeping together (and he doesn't care what she tries to say about it, he does feel responsible. He's been selfish.)

(And, to be fair, he doesn't actually attempt to say the words 'I'm sorry'.)

Gillian cooks dinner (which they eat with very little conversation beyond 'how was your first day?' 'Good thank you') and they watch TV. News and then sitcoms and the more Cal sits there (slouches) the more the question goes around and around and around his mind until he starts working up the courage to ask her, to initiate that conversation they're not having and it blurts out of his mouth, "Why did you keep coming back if you weren't enjoying it?"

Gillian seems to pause for a second and then she slowly looks over at him, a slight aversion of her eyes that tells him there's some shame in there and he can't even fathom why she would feel that way. (She's never had good sex? As in, she's never... He can't believe that. Flat our refuses to.) (Or maybe she had some weird... notion... that she had to? Like she was obliged... Or that... He doesn't know.)

"I thought it would get better," Gillian says quietly after she mutes the television and that feels like a sucker punch.

This time, Cal looks away, because that's statement enough: _I thought it would get better_. I thought _you_ would get better. I didn't think you'd be so lousy in bed.

At least she didn't say 'I felt sorry for you'. Because that really would be the lowest.

"Sorry," Cal murmurs.

"Me too," Gillian echoes and Cal does feel worse. So she regrets it. That's... That's probably worse. Yep. Worse. Definitely. But, not something that didn't fleetingly cross his mind once (before he tried to deny that he had even thought it). Which was one of the reasons he's never told her (and probably never will) that he loves her.

They're both staring at the muted television and not saying anything. Cal feels a strange sensation in his chest that seems familiar but he can't place it. He knows that what he's hearing is something he never wanted to hear but he has no idea where to go next, because he asked the question. And he got his answer. They're kind of trapped there together and really, they shouldn't have done this in the first place. Should have just kept it platonic; simple. Not that he was hoping to start something when he kissed her. He just felt... compelled, like it was a good opportunity (but apparently not the best one). Maybe he's gone about it all wrong. He always figured Gillian was the kind of woman to be dated, not the kind of woman to fall into bed with. Even though she was in his bed at the time.

He's screwed it up completely.

And he's an idiot.

He's so completely off balance with himself, that he doesn't even raise his voice and be obnoxious and try to intimidate her to make himself feel better. What has always made him feel better with Gillian is when she's soft and caring. She's been his almost perfect opposite but maybe that's the problem. Maybe they're just too different, just so completely unsuited that he's been kidding himself all along. He should stop loving her (would be easier if they weren't living together) but she puts her hand on his upper arm (because almost his entire body on the right side is in plaster and unless she was going to touch him in rude places, she doesn't have many options) and gives it a gentle squeeze while telling him she's going to go to bed (even though its early). It makes his stomach feel weird. And he wants to say 'ok I'll come too'.

But that's the problem, isn't it?

Gillian sleeps upstairs and that is a sufficient statement. Cal feels miserable about that enough to stay where he is on the couch, watching crappy movies until the early hours of the morning and he falls asleep where he is. So on the second day, Gillian's well gone to work by the time Cal comes around an hour before midday. He didn't even hear her in the kitchen, even though it's just the next room over (which means he was completely out of it, or she was being incredibly quiet, or maybe she just didn't make coffee or eat breakfast at all). He wakes on the couch, disorientated and groggy and uncomfortable, with his neck bent over and holding too much tension in his broken leg. Cal gets himself cereal (finds Gillian's breakfast dishes) and goes back to the couch. He catches the end of morning television (disgustingly chipper personalities). And then he is bored.

When Gillian gets home that evening (he's actually bloody excited because it's someone to talk to, something to do, he can step outside of his mind for a moment, because he's had nothing to do all day but think, about them and this situation and the explosion and it goes around and around), she looks tired. He asks her again how her day was and she gives another of her noncommittal answers. So Cal tries probing a little deeper ('you settling in all right?' 'Yes'), but even though she doesn't ignore him, she is shut off and he's rarely seen her like this: closed to him. Sometimes she's mad, and sometimes she's quiet, but she's never been so... unreachable. He's not entirely sure it's because of the sex thing (he thinks she's been like this in some way or another, well at least since the explosion, but possibly before. He hates to admit it, but he might not have been paying close enough attention. And this, the woman he considers his best friend. The woman he apparently loves). He knows there's only the two of them (except he's wrong. She's out in the big wide world now, with new work colleagues and he never envisioned a time when they wouldn't be working with each other anymore. If he did, it was because of a falling out. Not like this), but that doesn't mean she can't find someone else. Someone, who will give her more. Which honestly scares him enough to take action, but he doesn't know what to do exactly.

Gillian cooks. They eat. Gillian does the dishes. Cal tries to help, but she politely (and with a smile) shoos him away (he _can_ do the dishes, it will just take some time) so he leaves, annoyed, to sit on the couch. It's been two weeks now, and he is officially sick of television. Which leaves him the internet. He's trawling through pages on the tablet when Gillian joins him. She puts the TV on and watches the news (Cal does keep half an eye on that). He gets an idea (and curiosity has never been subtle on him). He searches for the explosion that put them there. He finds news websites, goes back through archives to the right days. There are stories about the house in the suburbs, the intense explosion. It's not hidden that it was a meth lab, or that people died in it; three (Cal wasn't actually aware there were other people in the house aside from them).

Three deaths.

That could include them. The online news articles don't name names. Cal supposes even if he checks records of deaths or perhaps even the obituaries, their names wouldn't appear either. Unless the marshals wanted everyone to know they were dead. But that wasn't always the case with witness protection. And besides, neighbours saw them being loaded into ambulances (he was obviously alive, because he was trying to watch what was going on with Gillian's rescue). Police were on the scene as well. That makes too many witnesses to keep quiet about the number of bodies. And they were treated in hospitals. That's even more people who know they survived it. The articles don't mention anyone being taken into protective custody, but it does talk about witnesses and Cal's not sure if that means himself and Gillian, or the neighbours who lived on that street who had 'no idea someone had set up a meth lab in number forty-two'.

Cal reads tens of articles (one in each of the major local papers, it barely makes a dent in regional, certainly not national) and then hits the end of the information. He looks up ownership of the house, refreshes his memory, but this is not new knowledge. He starts saving information in a file, and before he realises what he's really doing, he's managed to start an investigation of sorts. With Gillian sitting right next to him on the couch no less (at least she didn't go sit in the arm chair, because that would have been one more indication she was avoiding him. Hard to do when they are in each other's pockets. He can't believe they were, up until two days ago, having sex. And he can't help feel as though he might have blown it _completely_. He's not sure what to do about it, he definitely doesn't want it to be like this, long silences and indifference, but he's not good at relationships, has admitted that before; they scare him. And yet with Gillian it's probably been inevitable. She's not a love-them-and-leave-them kind of woman. So maybe he should have thought this through a lot better before he kissed her that night. It felt like they were getting closer. And it was safe in the dark. But that still leaves him with 'what now?' and for now, he's avoiding it).

Gillian goes to bed early. She goes alone and she goes upstairs (that is strike one of avoidance. Conversation makes two. If she starts eating alone it would be three. And not being in the room with him would make four. Four strikes is definitely beyond failure). Cal takes himself to bed too (he's not watching the television) and carries the tablet with him (which is really bloody awkward with crutches and a broken leg). He doesn't know how to lock the file he's created and he thinks setting a password onto the tablet itself will only cause Gillian suspicion (it's not his. It's theirs). So he renames it something innocuous, puts a lot of crap at the start of it and a few photos, so if Gillian does open it, she's not going to find much, unless she scrolls all the way through to the bottom (and he doesn't think she'll be that nosey. She's had opportunity enough over the years, and he's never found her to be overly invasive; trusting).

Cal notes down what he remembers about the case from before the shit it the fan (like he tried to do before Gillian came back from the hospital. But this time, he doesn't have to suffer through is poor handwriting, just the tedious tapping of his index finger; no touch typing for him). He figures any kind of investigation would have moved on since the Lightman Group started working on it so he goes on with where he would take it next (distributors, cooks, money laundering etc). He can't do much more then speculate but he works on into the early hours of the morning before he has to close his eyes for a second. When he wakes up again, its midday. The house is quiet and of course, Gillian would be at work. Cal pushes himself up, his arm aching sharply (but maybe not as bad as a few days ago). The tablet is gone (sharp spike of panic for a second there) and the light is off. He didn't do it, and the only other person who could have was Gillian. He hops and limps to the toilet (because he's desperate) and when he comes back into the bedroom to put on pants, he sees the tablet on the bedside table. Gillian came in to check on him this morning; or tucked him in.

That makes Cal feel funny.

He missed it. And he didn't want to.


	9. Chapter 9

When Gillian gets home, Cal is quiet, but not abrasive (maybe thoughtful). She gives him non-comittance and he gives her indifference (or distraction), so she guesses that's fair. She cooks and they eat together, but they don't talk much beyond the necessities (it's definitely not hostile, just like they have nothing to say to each other; to tired of it all for small talk). Gillian has a tough time meeting his eye and Cal seems preoccupied, like he has something better to do, somewhere better to be. She can't imagine what (or where he would go), but he seems quite enamoured with the tablet. When she walks behind him (not snooping, but definitely looking), she only sees that he's playing a matching game with what looks like bright coloured candy.

After the first day of Cal probing about the sex thing, he drops it and leaves her alone (_proper_ leaves her alone). And that makes Gillian feel a few things, none of them pleasant. She's not relieved, she's hurt. Firstly, he doesn't care enough to ferret out the root of the problem (like he does with everyone else), which means he doesn't care about her, and then, secondly, he goes into silent mode for the next few days. He's not hostile, not that kind of silent treatment, just... like he has nothing to say to her; like she's not even worth it (like she does to him, perhaps.) And that also makes her feel sad; it's been two weeks since they've been living in each other's pockets and they've run out of things to say to each other. Two weeks is all it took.

He doesn't ask her about her new job much either (he _was_ polite about it in the start. And she might have purposefully played it down) but he didn't push and that's the point. So Gillian focuses on her work at the high school. The people she works with are nice enough (but she hasn't tried to make friends yet; been busy). There are four other counsellors and a secretary and they have their own suite in the main building. It's almost like going back in time to when she was first a therapist, when she had to do her clinical hours and was finishing her doctorate. Except the clients this time are teenagers, which is new (she's spent time working with younger children; grade school age). Her duties aren't overly strenuous (but that might just be because it's only the first week and they're easing her into it); she has a section of the school population she has to keep tabs on in regards to school career and post-high school career (if they're seniors), and if any students on that list get into trouble, she knows about it, has to deal with it, and vice versa, if they want to see her (or anyone can see her at any time), she does (dropping what she was doing to speak with them. It hasn't happened too often yet, thankfully).

The first few days, she spends her time keeping up with what the students in her alphabet section are doing (A through to G; she got some sparse letters); mostly the seniors who are graduating in a few months (so she's at least vaguely familiar with them). She has to sit in on two disciplinary meetings (and has to bring herself up to speed with the students' history really quickly). But mostly she is left to her own devices (where she reads through files and makes a few notes). The suite is usually pretty quiet; punctuated periodically by the bell or a phone ringing, so she gets a lot of work done.

By the end of the third day, she's just about dreading going home. And that is not a good space to be in at all. Cal has just been so difficult. And she's been chicken. The weekend is fast approaching, which means they're going to be in each other's pockets for two whole awkward days if they carry on the way they are. If Cal isn't going to do anything about it, then she will, because she can't live her life like this (it's exactly why she ended up leaving Alec. Which brings her to a harrowing thought: what if she can't fix it with Cal?)

But. She doesn't know how. Where to start. If he'll listen to her. If it will get her anywhere.

Trying to talk to him could just make the situation worse. They're kind of trapped together (maybe not forever. But two weeks and they're driving each other up the wall doesn't bode well for any long term kind of arrangement. And seeing as the marshals went ahead and put them together, she's not sure how well they would take a separation). It would be easy for her to talk herself out of it. And she hasn't quite talked herself into it yet either. She has to though. She really has to. Seriously cannot go on like they have been. So when she gets home, she's actually completely surprised.

Cal meets her at the door (was he waiting there for her?). It looks like he's showered, or something; his hair is wet and he smells clean and... sexy (yep, she can smell him from where she's standing). He's leaning on his crutches, like he _was_ waiting for her to arrive and there's a look on his face, in his eye, that's not been there before. He's not angry or self-loathing or sending out any of the other frustrated and bitter energies. He's... It's hard to explain. It's like... It's like he's been waiting for her and he's a bit... turned on or something. It's predatory and kind of, enticing and attractive and it makes Gillian push the door shut absently behind her, unable to break eye contact, and then just stand there and wait (sort of stunned into immobility). There's just something different about him. He's in charge, in control. That's what it feels like. Confident. Wasn't she just complaining he wasn't confident with her and? Oh.

He comes towards her, a little shuffle of his feet and crutches and Gillian forgets that she's sort of mad at him (or something). He straightens up, right in front of her, and leans in close, slowly, really slowly, so slowly that Gillian actually starts to feel a little frustrated that he's taking so damn long. She rocks forward to her toes to meet him and he presses his mouth against hers softly. His lips are warm and she catches a good whiff of how nice he smells (makes her want to grab him roughly. She doesn't. She holds on to restraint. She'd knock him square off his feet). She feels his fingers ghosting down her arm (over the shirt she's wearing. And blazer and coat) to her wrist, where his thumb scrapes firmly against her pulse a few times (makes it jump) before hooking his fingers into hers and pulling her towards him a little more. She takes a half step, her mouth sinking tighter against his. Then she feels his tongue tracing lightly along her lips. She half thinks to make him work for it, but her body completely betrays her and gives in almost immediately.

She shifts her weight, so that she's standing less rigidly, so that Cal gets a little height advantage (because she's in heels) and feels the huff of his breath against her cheek, before his tongue is gently exploring her mouth. She feels his other hand at her other wrist, pushing her away this time, but as she goes (she's trying to take the hint now that he's leading the way, instead of worrying about the weirdness of the last week. They'll deal with it later. And if he thinks he can just... kiss her really, really good and make her forgive him, then he's wrong), he goes with her. His crutches clatter to the floor and her back is against the front door. Cal breaks the kissing to hop closer but doesn't give her much respite before he's back, mouth tender but purposeful (she forgets the weirdness completely, because this feels really good. And entirely natural).

His right fingers tangle in her clothes, like he's holding her there (not that she can move far, with his body pinning her lightly against the wood of the front door), while his left goes to her shoulder, pushes at her coat. She helps him with it, using the break to get air (to get hold of herself). His gaze is steady on hers as he helps her take her coat off (he doesn't really help much because of his physical limitations, but he does encourage her) and hops over to the rack beside the door to hang it. Gillian stoops to pick up his crutches for him, so that when he turns around she's waiting with them. He looks... put out or embarrassed but he takes them then with a little nod and hooks them under his arms. Gillian doesn't get what that was about and in that split-second that Cal hesitates she decides to go to the living room. She kicks off her shoes and sinks into the couch and Cal follows.

It looks as though he hesitates for a second, but then he's dancing his awkward jig to get the crutches out of his way and turn and drop to the cushions next to her. He jostles her roughly but when he settles Gillian comes in closer, so she's hugging against his upper arm (even though it's his broken one). "How was your day?" She asks him.

"Uh, good. How was yours?" Cal runs his palm down the thigh of his jeans (he got dressed!) and Gillian suddenly realises she's missing something. There's a tension in the air, well, not tension... but an 'air' between them. She suddenly notices Cal seems nervous. He's sitting there quite tensely and it feels like he's holding his breath periodically.

Gillian pulls back and he looks over at her. "Are you ok?"

"Yes fine," he immediately responds. Gillian takes a second to let that sink in, in case he has something else to add, but he doesn't so she gives him a slight smile and leans back against his arm, cheek to the top of his shoulder.

"My day was okay," she answers his earlier question. Now that she's giving it more thought, he's acting strange. The kissing at the door, for one, while nice, is not usual and it's doubly weird after the two-three days of Mexican stand-off they just had (or are still having). Gillian sits back again and Cal turns to look at her. It's almost as though he's waiting on her to do something or say something. Gillian remembers her determination in the car for wanting to get to the bottom of their odd situation and represses a sigh (the kissing did distract her, damnit). She hesitates on the verge of saying something, wavering, but Cal meets her eyes and she can see that he's _wanting_ her to say something now, no longer just hoping for it. Fine, she'll go first. She can take a hint.

"Cal. The last few days."

He turns his lips inward, so they disappear into his mouth, like he's trying to suck them away; it's not a happy expression.

Gillian plunges on, even though she doesn't know what to say to that. "I didn't mean for..."

Cal blinks. His attentiveness puts her off.

"I don't want it to be... like that," Gillian finishes lamely. Usually, she's quite good with words but that might be because usually she knows what it is she's trying to say. It's probably the closest she's going to get to actually apologising to him, because she simultaneously feels she should and should _not_ actually say she's sorry; it's moot.

Cal lets his lips go and they give a little pout. "Yeah me either," he says cautiously. She watches the way his shoulders drop and he seems to relax into his seat. That 'air' lifts and Gillian relaxes herself. She figures that's about as much apology as she's going to get from him too (she also thinks he should _and_ should not have to apologise).

"Want to eat?" She asks.

"Yeah," Cal agrees.

Gillian plants a kiss on him (why not? She likes kissing him. And that was some seriously hot and heavy by the front door. _And_, they seemed to have just taken a step forward) and gets up. She goes to the kitchen, trawls through the cupboards for inspiration and comes up lacking. Her feet hurt and she's wary, especially since she sat down; she should have just kept going as soon as she got in the door. If she hadn't been confronted by the front door. Ravished. She wonders what compelled him to do that? It was slightly out of the blue. It was a good ice breaker (she supposes) but maybe a little... Ah forget it. She's not in the mood for over analysing everything. Sometimes, it's fine to just go with the flow.

She goes through to the living room again. Cal looks up at her from the couch, tablet in his lap. "Pizza?" She asks.

"Sure," Cal responds with a slight grin.

Gillian goes back to the front door and fishes her purse off the floor (where she dropped it and didn't even realise she had until now). She digs out her phone. "Too tired for cooking," she tells him absently as she searches for a local pizza place and misses the odd expression on Cal's face. She doesn't ask him what he wants on it, because she knows already and within twenty minutes there's a knock at the door. For a second, panic hits Gillian's stomach; a stranger at the door. And at this hour? She talks herself out of it though, and checks through the peephole to make sure it is indeed the delivery boy (girl, actually, it's a young woman). Gillian takes the box through to Cal and curls her legs under her as she sits next to him on the cushions. For once he doesn't lie all stretched out, so they sit shoulder to shoulder (when they could have sat at opposite ends, or across the room) and eat while they watch the news together.

Cal puts on the history channel afterwards and Gillian shifts to rest her head on his shoulder, while he finishes off the pizza. Then she closes her eyes. Then she starts to feel herself drift off. Before she actually goes to sleep though, she pulls herself away. Cal's head turns towards her. "Time for bed for me," she tells him, half apologetic and sleepy. Cal reaches for the remote. "You don't have to come now," Gillian tells him as she gets up, pushing against his shoulder for leverage.

"No, it's all right," Cal counters almost eagerly. Gillian doesn't wait for him, but goes upstairs to the bathroom to brush her teeth. She changes into her pyjamas on autopilot but once she's dressed she stops. She's been sleeping up there for the last few nights. Because things have been entirely awkward between them. But there was a quasi-apology, or perhaps, just a clearing of the air between them, so maybe she should go back down there. To be honest, she doesn't like all the back and forth. She's been cowardly escaping to the first floor when something goes wrong between them. She might not know exactly where she stands with Cal, and she might not exactly know what she wants from Cal, but she knows that they're not going to get anywhere, to even test out the waters, if there isn't a little consistency (if there isn't, at least, trying). And he kind of started it tonight.

So Gillian goes back downstairs and finds Cal taking his shirt off before he gets into bed (very nice view). She catches the look on his face when he sees her and it's almost pure shock, which he then tries to cover over quickly. They stop where they are for a second, Cal by the bed, Gillian by the doorway, then Cal throws back the covers on the bed and continues on with getting in (that was her invitation to join him). Gillian goes around the bed and gets in the other side. Cal busies himself with the covers and yeah, it's between them, that barometer of their relationship. Gillian vows to not let it happen again.

Cal settles back on the pillow and is still. The light is still on so Gillian leans over him to put it out. She can feel him stiff beneath her as she leans over his torso. She gives him another kiss as she moves back to her side. "Goodnight Cal," she murmurs in the darkness, eyes already closed.

"Night Gill," he responds.

**PJ**

Sometimes it's nice to have the house quiet and for Gillian to feel like she's possibly the only person alive left on the earth. She thinks about how it would be if that were true, if she left the house this morning to find there was no traffic on the streets, no one trekking the sidewalks; no teenagers waiting for her at school. She thinks she might not care too much, considering all these people in this town are strangers who she hasn't known long enough to even miss. But there are other people in her life (her former life) she does wonder about. How are Ria and Eli coping? (And also, what have they done about the Lightman Group?) Her parents, of course. And then there's Cal. If he were gone... She really can't imagine her life without him in it in some way or other. Before (before, before. Before all of this), when things weren't great between them, she used to think about the process of leaving him. But even then, when she pictured herself not going into the Lightman Group building every day, she couldn't imagine letting go of Cal (she figured, after a while, after he got over being hurt that she had gone, they might be friends again. Proper friends. Without the business always between them). It's been years since she's gone more than a day without even speaking to him.

They really _are_ practically married.

(And might have been acting that way for a little while.)

Gillian starts on her coffee at the kitchen sink while she waits for her breakfast to cook. She looks out into the yard (no snow) at the bare trees without seeing them (she knows they're there, can see outlines from the streetlights, but it's still dark). She keeps an ear out for Cal, half hoping that he's going to join her, grumbling about the hour, so they can talk about... anything really; it's the company she's hoping for. Because even though it's kind of nice to have the peacefulness, she's also... kind of lonely. She didn't spend every waking minute of her marriage with Alec so perhaps today she's just feeling melancholy. Or perhaps it's just that it's Cal and she likes him and wants to spend time with him (at least when they're angry with each other that explains the distance, but when they're not, it might be nice to have him... around).

She eats at the dining table by herself and moves around the house quietly, showering upstairs and dressing for her day. Before she leaves, she goes back to Cal's bedroom and pushes the door open softly. He's pretty much where she left him, on his back, head to the side; she can't see his face but she can hear him breathing steadily. She's tempted to give him a kiss goodbye but suddenly feels silly and girly. She's not sure what's come over her this morning, but it's probably to do with what happened last night.

Maybe she just wants to know that last night meant something more significant than a half apology. She wants it to be a turning point.

There's not a lot of traffic on the road this early and Gillian travels to Boulder High in the quasi-darkness listening to the weather report. They're predicting snow by lunch time, consistent for most of the weekend. Gillian's mood depresses a little so she stops at her new cafe to buy herself something silly (a snowman cookie) to make herself feel better (it's the small things, she discovered a long time ago, that can make all the difference. And why deny herself that? It's not like she's snorting cocaine). The young man behind the counter is starting to recognise her (she's forgone coffee at the house to pick up something creamy on her way to work a few times this week) so she gets a friendly greeting and a nice smile and that helps make her feel better too.

The campus is still quiet this early (Gillian has to be at the school by seven thirty on Mondays, Thursday and Fridays. She thinks she's lucked out) but the heat and lights are on as Gillian goes inside and to her office. She unlocks it, turns her own lights on, powers up the computer, deposits her treat on the desk, then strips off her winter layers. She should have checked the weather before leaving the house; she's rethinking her footwear (she looked last night, but there was no snow forecast. At least she's not in her Louboutins. Has she mentioned she misses them?)

Gillian logs onto the school's network and checks her mail. There's a broadcast from the vice-principals desk (it goes to all staff and is posted on the website) reminding the school community about the school events on, on the weekend. There's a football game that night but Gillian hadn't planned on attending (it might not be so much fun sitting there in the cold by herself) and there is a math tournament for the elite mathematicians on Saturday afternoon (she's also going to pass on that one). After that, Gillian checks her other more personal messages (as in, they're specifically for her; they're not personal, personal, like from her family or anything) and works on the requests within them.

She meets with three of her seniors, talks about colleges and test scores. She has lunch in the second lunch period, which is later in the afternoon (because a counsellor always has to be available to students, and it seems two is required because there are always students milling around in the counsellors' suite) and that means her afternoon goes rather quickly. But just as she's thinking she might get a quieter afternoon, she's wrong. There's a buzz on her phone and she's asked if she can take a meeting; someone's in trouble.

Jerome Manning. When Gillian hears the name her heart almost stops. She flashes back to the moment the meth lab exploded in her face, the fierce rush of heat and feels her cheeks flush. She doesn't miss the concerned expression on her vice-principle's face and quickly takes a chair (she finds her palms are sweating). Jerome is sixteen and, in general, having difficulty in school. Academically, he's about average, but behaviourally he's in trouble most of the time for not showing up to class, showing up late, causing disruptions and threatening other students. He sounds like a tough nut and Gillian is so glad to take on something that seems difficult and prolonged in her first week; hell of a test, one she's totally up for; she's good at a challenge.

But when she puts her self-pity aside for the step down she's taken (for the boredom she can feel setting in and she's only on day four) she reminds herself that she's there to do a job, and not just that, but she does actually enjoy helping people, thinks she's not too bad at it, and really does want to figure this kid out (obviously, there is something else going on with him that no one else knows about). The meeting goes for close to forty-five minutes and one of the first things Gillian notices is that no one in the room actually talks to Jerome (the VP or Jerome's homeroom teacher, or the baseball coach, who seems bored; Jerome is on the team. Or he was. That's a bit iffy right now), even though he is sitting there in the middle of the room. Cal would immediately point out that putting him in a situation where he feels threatened or cornered is not going to be the best for getting a response; he'd immediately be on the kid's side (and so is Gillian).

She doesn't do too much talking in the meeting, mostly, she sits back and listens, occasionally jots something down to work out later, and, interestingly, finds herself watching Jerome's face and noting down the expression's she sees and when (as in, what was being discussed). The long or short of it is, Jerome is on his last chance. He's missing too much school and is at risk of being held back (but not because is grades are poor, he has to meet attendance requirements). He basically has to show up to every class from now on. Not only that, he has to take twice weekly meetings with his guidance counsellor (Gillian, now, seeing as she was available at the time of this meeting), and there has to be marked improvements in his behaviour. Not so easy, by the look of it, Gillian thinks to herself.

The bell signals the end of the period, and also the end of the meeting and also the end of Gillian's work day. She starts early and gets to go home early. As Gillian's getting into her car to go home, she realises two things. The first is that it's not snowing and it hasn't, in fact, snowed that day at all. The second, is that she was half tempted to text Cal and let him know she was on her way home. She's looking forward to seeing him but she's not sure if that's because of the nice surprise she got yesterday evening, or because it's nearly been a whole week now of her working, and she's barely seen him (well, not barely, but certainly a whole lot less than the 24 hours of the previous weeks) and, maybe, she misses him a little bit (and that that might be why she was in a funny mood that morning).

Cal seems... a little antsy when she gets back to the house. He's in the kitchen cooking. She equally likes that he's got dinner (not really) on the table (about half way through, it looks like; he started really early...) when she gets in (so she doesn't have to cook when she's tired) and that he's actually making something that smells incredible and that isn't just fish and a salad (not that she's complaining about that, there's just something nice about a complex meal put together from scratch, with maybe a little love.) So when Gillian half-sneaks up on Cal at the stove, she's not sure he's jumpy because she surprised him, or for another reason (a surprise like that should be easier to get over, but acts weird for longer than she thinks he should. Like he has a guilty conscience).

"I didn't hear you come in," Cal states the obvious.

Gillian gives a shrug, takes the wooden spoon from his left hand after watching him awkwardly try to stir the thickening sauce. He doesn't protest, hops away to give her more room. Her other hand goes to his waist, feels his torso through the thin material of the t-shirt he's wearing (he seems to have brought all the grey from the safe house. Which to be fair, doesn't look half bad on him. He might be wearing a half size too small, because she can see the definition of his pecs. And the flash of a tattoo.)

"Did you have a good day?" Cal mumbles his question, checking on the other pots (it looks like chicken cacciatore with rice.) Gillian, distracted, takes a second to respond. Her hand drifts to the hair at the back of his head and his eyes come up to meet hers, surprised for a second before giving into it. He turns his body towards her (conscious or not) and Gillian leans in to kiss him softly. He gives her more surprise when she pulls away (she supposes she doesn't do that too often; maybe ever) and she asks, "Is that ok?"

Cal looks taken aback for a split second. "Yes," he says but it sounds a bit like a question. He gives a slight smile (like he can't help it) and Gillian returns it, feeling her cheeks heat. Cal breaks into a grin and Gillian mirrors it and there's a strange feeling in her chest. She feels lighter and warmer and pleased with his reaction. She suspects it's because she's actually being honest. Not just with telling him something that's true, or acting on an impulse to taste his lips, but because she did it without thinking about how he was going to take it, without obsessing over that twitch of his mouth or the crinkle of his eye. (Oh dear god, she's become him.) She did it without him having to break the ice first.

"You're home early," Cal points out. "Kind of ruining my surprise here."

"Oh sorry," Gillian responds, feeling her cheeks warm again. "Want me to go out and come back in another hour?"

Cal smirks. "No, but you'll have to help me finish up now."

Gillian stops daydreaming and gives him another smile. "Sure." She is anyway. Cal directs more liquid to the sauce, turns down the heat on another element, goes to the fridge for more ingredients.

"So, home early?" Cal asks again.

Gillian reminds him of her hours again. "Oh right," he mumbles and stands behind her to chop. Gillian listens to the slow thunk of the knife against the wooden board, thinks belatedly that maybe she should offer to do the cutting, and realises that he probably started cooking so early because he's so slow. Poor guy. (But also kudos for firstly cooking her dinner, and secondly attempting to have it ready for when she got home. If she had gotten home at the normal time).

When Cal deems the food ready, he hops to the cupboard and takes out two plates, while Gillian turns off the heat and grabs a serving spoon. She carries their plates to the dining room and they sit together. Gillian compliments the food after the first bite (it really is that good) and then they're quiet as they eat their meal. Cal clears his throat and Gillian looks up, expecting conversation but he only glances over at her as he chews and so she lets her mind drift away again.

It's just about the weekend and she's tired. She's looking forward to sleeping in. And maybe a long bath at some point during those next two days, before she has to go to work. She also wouldn't mind a bit more shopping, as long as the weather holds out (coffee maker. Desperately. Instant is just not right).

"No snow today," Gillian notes, the silence, while not uncomfortable, has been long and maybe a little strange.

Cal looks like he's been pulled from thought. "Was it meant to snow?"

"They forecast it this morning."

Cal looks to the window but its dark out, like he's just noticed, and Gillian gives up on conversation; he's clearly a million miles away. And that's okay, she supposes. Maybe he has things on his mind. Maybe they've run out of things to say to each other. Maybe, he just enjoys a bit of silence. She's seen all three of those sides of him. But she suspects its things on his mind because she finishes her meal first and he's started to play with his a bit. She presses a kiss to his temple as she gets up (doesn't think, just acts) and goes to clear the kitchen away. He hobbles in a few minutes later with his empty plate (he must have wolfed down the last of it) and helps stack the dishwasher.

They sit and watch the evening news. Gillian closes her eyes for a second and then she's being shaken gently awake by Cal. "Bedtime," he tells her.

Gillian blinks, confused.

"Let's go," Cal tells her gently. "Bed."

So they go to bed. Gillian brushes her teeth half heartedly in the bathroom downstairs (she has re-migrated her toothbrush; did that this morning while she was creeping around) and starts stripping off her clothes before she's even in the bedroom. She goes to Cal's dresser and takes a t-shirt, slipping it on and getting under the covers. She's not even really aware of where Cal is in all of this (she's mostly asleep), and she's only half aware of him getting into bed with her (can't miss the earthquake of him bouncing onto the mattress) but once he's settled, she has enough presence of mind left to scoot closer and snuggle up against his shoulder. Then she's out.

She doesn't notice him press a kiss to her hair.

**PJ**

Cal drifts awake, emerging from a dream he immediately forgets (but thinks was nice enough) and automatically shifts his ass on the mattress to let the blood flow slide in again. He attempts to bend his right knee (forgetting in his half-awake state) and is constricted by the plaster cast. But it doesn't hurt the point of the break this time and he thinks there might be a turning point there, somewhere, a little bit. Like there was one with Gillian the other night (and last night too. There was some _serious_ cuddling even though they weren't post-coital and she was mostly asleep already) and Cal comes more awake, sensing that he might be alone in the bed. A quick tearing of his eyes open confirms this and he gives a little groan. It might have been nice to wake up with her there (he's spent a whole week waking alone). He forces himself more conscious and sits (and when he presses his broken arm to the mattress for leverage, he notes that it doesn't seem to hurt either). The bedroom is dim and the door is closed; he can't hear if Gillian is across the hall in the bathroom or if she is even still in the house. Cal turns his head to check the time; it's late in the morning (his usual wake up time). So she woke ages ago and has already gone to work. And he's missed her again.

Cal works himself out of bed, finds a t-shirt to put on and some pants (cut off pyjamas. Home wear. He has some cut off jeans for when he leaves the house. But that hasn't been often). Then he half hops and shuffles across the hall to the bathroom (and when he stands on his broken leg, that doesn't hurt half as much as it used to). He goes to the kitchen, helps himself to the coffee Gillian's already partook in, by the look of the dirty cup in the sink (and she had breakfast too; those dishes are also there). Cal has a quick bowl of cereal while he's standing at the bench and then, with his coffee cup half empty, goes through to the living room and plants himself on the couch (carefully, doesn't want to spill). He starts with morning TV just to see if there's anything that's going to hold his attention (while he's waking up) and when it doesn't, he turns it off and looks around for the tablet. It's not in there with him, though he was sure he had left it on the coffee table yesterday evening. A surge of frustration bubbles up inside him; he can't be bothered going through the whole frigging rigmarole of getting up again and going into the other room, hopping and leaning on one crutch with his leg hurting (the more cumulative standing he does, the more it aches), just to get the fricking device.

Instead, he turns and scoots his body down the couch so he's lying stretched out full length along all the cushions, his neck against one arm (as a pillow) and his broken foot on top of the other arm rest at the other end (he's meant to have been elevating it. He doubts it's going to help him at all now, nearly three weeks later, but it is comfortable). He closes his eyes, ruing his poor luck (with all his broken bones) and frustration. He takes a deep breath and holds it, hearing his blood pulsing, then pounding, then threatening in his ears.

He tells himself to calm down. He tells himself that the broken limbs are only temporary and he has bigger goals in mind right now. Mostly, he needs to get his shit together. And maybe he can't jump in the shower and wash his hair and have a shave (which is usually how he gets himself back together) but that doesn't mean he _can't_ wash, or wash his hair (actually, that one is trickier as he found out the other day, attempting it by himself), or have a shave. So he gets up again to do just that but after the wash part he can't be bothered with either of the other two. It all seems to take so much energy (and it takes _so_ long) that he just goes back to the couch. He has an afternoon nap and when he wakes his mood hasn't much improved. When Gillian gets home that evening there's no dinner and he's barely moved all day. He can tell immediately that she's disappointed, and instead of telling himself that he should be making more effort, he gets annoyed at her reaction. Never mind that yesterday he was telling himself that half their problem was him (not the sex bit, he's trying to move on from/ignore that) and that he was promising to work on it; to be less grumpy, to stop taking it out on her.

Never mind that yesterday, when he cooked for her, and kissed her, and was nice to her she fully responded (she responded so easily and so well, he was kind of surprised. He thought it might take _a lot_ more effort than that). Never mind that it led to a lot of affection and cuddling and basically all the things he was craving. Never mind that he could forget about the explosion (well not really. Kind of hard to ignore a giant plaster cast on his leg and another on his arm), and the awkward foray into having sex with each other (which turned out to be a total bust...), and that they might have had a chance at starting over and doing it properly this time (because, yeah, he is totally aware that they've gone about this all wrong). Never mind all that. Now he's grumpy and frustrated and he wants to be alone (even though he woke up that morning wishing he wasn't). But Gillian is there and he can see the confusion, then hurt, in her eyes, and even though it's a bit like kicking a puppy, he can't seem to stop himself. But because he's trying to be less of a moody prick, by bed time he does manage to tone it down (and even though he's been grumpy, he hasn't bitched at her; he's just been... well, sullen, actually, which might be construed as grumpy at her).

When it's bed time (Gillian calls it), Cal gets up with her. He's really, really hoping that she won't go upstairs (after his sulking) but she does and he gives a brusque 'goodnight' at the foot of the stairs. She turns her head away but he still catches the way her eyes fade and he berates himself for being... too... he doesn't even know what anymore. Moody? Or just himself? He watches her ass for a few seconds as she climbs (until he thinks she might think he's being creepy) and then moves down the hall to his room. He's getting much better at using his crutches with his broken arm. It helps that it doesn't hurt much anymore (unless he does something really extreme) and he knows the right angle and the right amount of pressure to be able to support his weight without causing the limb to ache.

He uses the bathroom and brushes his teeth, then hops it across the hall to his bedroom and flicks on the light. He goes to the lamp and puts that on, then leans his crutches against the little bedside table so he can get them in the morning. Balancing mostly on one leg (because while his arm seems to be hurting less, and his leg is doing better, it still sends him sharp enough signals to be weary if he pushes it too hard), he takes his shirt off and tosses it to land on top of the dresser (no accessories or photos on top of there to worry about). He has to stand for a second to regain his balance, then grips the elastic of his cut off pyjama pants to tug them down. He catches something out of the corner of his eye and looks over to the door. It's Gillian, but the surprise still catches his heart and makes him have to swing abruptly around to sit heavily on the mattress.

She watches him impassively (thank god she's not laughing at him) as she moves to lean against the door frame, "Want some company?" She doesn't ask it casually. She asks it like she can't tell anymore and is actually _asking_ him.

"Yes," Cal answers after a beat (could have been a beat too long. He doesn't want to seem too keen, nor too distant; he's an idiot for playing these games with her. Just tell her what he wants, it worked for him yesterday). She comes into the room, pushing the door almost closed and turning off the overhead light. She's dressed for bed (she went upstairs to get pyjamas, so he totally called that wrong) and she goes around the room to the side of the bed Cal doesn't sleep on. While Cal finishes the awkward move of taking his pants off, Gillian slips beneath the covers. He likes that she's there, but he's really starting to hate that she's forcing sleeping in the same bed as him to be a barometer of how their relationship is going (or maybe it's a good thing, because then he'll know where he stands). He stands again to pull back the covers and Gillian helps him and he's pretty sure he catches some bare thigh (which is also very nice). Then he does his awkward dance to get onto the mattress and Gillian flicks the covers up over him (kind of tucking him in again). Then she leans right over him to put the light out, and as she moves back, her mouth is searching against his (with cute little laughs as she finds her way in the dark). She kisses him hotly and thoroughly and when she pulls back she whispers 'goodnight Cal' before she settles on her side of the bed and goes almost straight to sleep.

And he's fully amazed, because even though he's kind of been a jerk once again, Gillian hasn't gone to hide upstairs... and he feels worse. She's clearly making some effort and he's back to acting like a child. He can do better. He swears he's going to do better. It's not her fault he's broken and it's not her fault that they're there. He's got to stop.

He has to.

He's already done something stupid.

And he's not sure what she's going to do when she finds out.

She's going to find out.

She always does.


	10. Chapter 10

_AN: this chapter is somewhat sexually explicit._

**PJ**

Gillian wakes early in the morning. Even without the alarm. So even though there isn't an obnoxious claxon to wake her, her body decides now is a good time to get into a routine and become alert. She's fully awake in less than a minute, not even drifting, not even at the point where she can roll over and go back to sleep. Which is annoying. It's Saturday and she thinks she's earned the right to sleep in (she _needs_ one). Her days are tiring (a lot of mental effort. She's had one entirely silent session with Jerome already and she thinks next week is going to be much of the same. He is a kid who is just not interested in being there. She's either going to fail completely or have a major break though; there will be no in-between) and then when she comes home it's like dealing with another child in Cal. She doesn't get him (no, she _does_ get it, he's frustrated and he's taking it out on her). One minute he's fine, and then next hour he's sulking. He's so up and down it's emotionally draining and mentally draining and she thought that it had stopped the day before only for her to come home last night and have him be that silently fuming teenager who doesn't talk about what's bothering him but somehow makes her feel like it's all her fault.

Gillian stares at the wall opposite the bed, blinking her eyes into focus, lying in the darkness as she listens to Cal breathing next to her. She gets he's frustrated, she really does, she's not made of stone (and this is hard on her too) but she doesn't get how he makes her responsible for it. She doesn't get why it's so hard. She also doesn't get why she doesn't say anything about it. She's never been afraid to talk to him about something before, even when he's been a jerk to her about it, even when it seemed to cost them their friendship (she still hasn't figured out what she did to make him act like that towards her either. It can't _all_ have been about Wallowski). Maybe that's it though, he's just... confusing and imagines slights that aren't there (or she really _has_ slighted him, and just has no idea what it was that she did. Which is getting into a pathetic territory).

Ugh. She really hates thinking like this. So much speculation and no answers. The truth is, she doesn't know, has no idea, and is too exhausted to put in the effort to figure it out. Or maybe that's it? She's not putting in the effort. She thought she had been doing better on that front; she certainly hasn't called him on anything since they've been here, not like she would have normally, because she knows he's irritated (actually, he seems downright furious sometimes) and she's trying to make allowances, but maybe that's not actually the right thing to do. Maybe he wants her to ask, to push. Some people are like that. What's glaringly obvious to her, is that she doesn't really know Cal at all. Because, aside from some glimpses, this isn't the Cal she was friends with, business partners with, slowly developing feelings with, back in D.C.

She wonders if she's changed since the explosion. She might have, though she feels the same. Everything in her life has changed, she might have to adapt. She thinks maybe that's what Cal has done, changed to adapt. They've had no other choice. They haven't had a lot of choices about anything really. What if she didn't want to work at the high school? They might be being looked after financially, but it feels like little compensation for what they're suffering to be state's witness. The programme usually deals with criminals, who probably didn't have a great life before (she's making wild generalisations. She knows it's not always living from drug sale to drug sale with threats of violence for every person who regularly breaks the law. Look at Jerome Willis. Bastard) and are moved to somewhere safe and nice. But she was perfectly fine before all of this. She had an income (as wobbly as it could be at times), nice things (shoes. She had nice shoes), a life. Her life. The life she had picked and created for herself (sometimes hard fought for too). And then the marshals came along and just assumed. They just assumed she wanted to live in Colorado and with Cal and to work as a counsellor.

(She might not have minded any of those things, actually, if she had chosen them for herself.)

She wonders what Cal would have chosen for himself if he were given the option (she remembers something about the marshals coming to talk to them about where they were going and what was happening next, but that never happened. And why not? It's not like they had gone anywhere. Oh, except to the hospital that time. Which was kind of her fault...) She figures none of this, seeing as it angers him so much. But really, the marshals did this to both of them, so they should be on each other's side.

They should be on _each other's side_.

Gillian feels a prickle of tears, the loneliness welling up sharply inside her, pressuring her lungs. She doesn't like feeling like this, and it's not fair. Jerome Willis is the bad guy and yet they're being punished for it.

"Are you crying?" Cal's voice is sleepy in the dark.

"No," Gillian strangles out, a complete lie. It's all a fucking lie really. All a game of pretending and not saying things. She can't tell the people she works with who she really is and where she's really from. She can't explain how she sees Jerome Manning's (_not_ the bad guy Jerome) anger and sadness (and lies on his behalf and tells the VP that he's cooperating with her even when he's not because she knows there's something underlying in him, that he _wants_ to talk about eventually, even though right now he's trying to block her out); she knows the kid isn't rotten to the core (despite what his homeroom teacher callously said to her in the hallway yesterday).

Cal grumbles something and she feels him shift closer. She can imagine the effort he makes to get over the mattress to her, especially when she realises he's on his side and is trying to tug her into an embrace. So she caves and goes with it because he's not the only one who's upset, and he might not like people around when he's grumpy, but she does, because she likes the comfort and affection. She likes to be held. And Cal does. He holds her, even though it's awkward, and she can feel him constantly rocking back and forth as he loses his balance and tries to regain it without crushing her. She thinks he's probably crushing himself and can't be comfortable at all so she pushes against him, so he's on his back and then she moves so she's lying on top of him, full body. His casts dig into her in the worst ways, but she doesn't move and he wraps both arms over her back tightly, holding her in place, and she turns her head to his chest, can hear his heart beat in a comforting rhythm. She closes her eyes and she's not crying anymore (kind of wasn't really in the beginning. Just a weird sob. She doesn't know how she managed to wake him up. But she's kind of glad he did, because this is nice and this is something that she's needed; even though she might not have realised it).

They lie that way for a while but then Gillian notes how Cal's breath starts to hitch; she's crushing him, but he's also bruising her. She moves away from the casts first, slides a leg down each side of his body and then pushes up off his chest. His arms fall away and she's straddling over him, her hands on the mattress on either side of his body, his on top of her thighs and it suddenly strikes her, that this is unexpectedly intimate, and is almost how they started getting closer in the first place (i.e. having sex. Which could have been fine if he hadn't found out she wasn't _enjoying_ it. Which she was, by the way).

He doesn't ask her 'what's wrong' and she doesn't tell him. She leans down and kisses him though. It's still dark (she has no idea what time) but she knows where his mouth is. She's not sure what's going through her mind, just like the first time he kissed her last week, but she knows it's not just about comfort. As frustrating as he is, it's Cal. It's her and Cal. She finally remembers all of that bit and she remembers she wants this bit too; she wants him. The kisses are kind of chaste but she rolls her hips into him and he growls and that undoes her a little. His mouth breaks from hers and his hands reach up higher for her, pulling her in closer. Then he's back to kissing her, a little less gentle about it now and it makes her stomach feel tight, her body throb. His casted hand comes to her jaw but he only uses his fingers to brush against her cheek, into her hair, distracting her from the fact that his left hand is trying to get into her pants (impressive, seeing as it's not his dominant hand. And they've had a rough time with sex before now. Guess he's not shy) and sliding against her skin, growing the burning feeling beneath her stomach so painfully sweet that she grabs at his wrist, pushes against his fingers until he's shifting down and inside her underwear (guess she's not shy either).

Gillian can't manage to get a thought together to try and stop it before it's already started (she thinks maybe they should talk first?); she can't actually object because she's encouraging him. And then very quickly she doesn't want him to stop (fuck talking). She grinds her hips into him as he slides his fingers purposefully. She feels the push of his hips against her from beneath, the firm work of his fingers, driving her quickly (and easily) towards a hotness she can't get her head around. She might have thought it ironic that he was doing this so easily now, and yet last week and a few days ago, it never occurred to him. She might have thought it was unfair that he was doing this now, that she had a moment ago been ready to hash it out with him (probably end up yelling at each other) on an intellectual level instead of just being... all carnal about it. But mostly what she is thinking is how goddamn good it feels and how she so desperately wants the relief she's being promised.

Cal gives up on her mouth, tugs her head down so he can move to her neck, pressing his shoulder against hers (probably trying to get as much contact as possible, seeing as she's sitting on him), as he rounds his fingers against her in large firm circles. Gillian huffs at air, her cheeks hot and her body tingly in all the deliciously good places. She fists a hand into the hair at the side of his head, cool for a second until her fingers warm it. "This ok?" Cal murmurs against her throat. She feels him try to move his head back (probably to look at her. In the dark?) but she shoves his head to the side again, pressing his face into her neck and throws her head back with a breathless groan.

"Yes," she whispers in response (as if the groan wasn't response enough) and Cal gives a grunt.

"Want me inside you?" He asks next, alternately licking and sucking at her skin, his voice low and exquisite.

"Yes!" Gillian cries, her hips pushing towards him again. He obliges and her knees feel weak and foreign (he uses his fingers, but he could have not meant them).

"One or two?"

"Two," she stammers. He fulfils that request as well and she's biting at her lip, not sure she can feel her legs.

"Fast or slow?"

She wants to punch him for forcing her to make decisions. She's silent, riding out the waves rippling through her body for a while. But then he stops dead and she gives a sharp squeak of displeasure, gripping his hair so tightly and squeezing him with her thighs that his body tries rolling away from her, protesting.

"Don't!" She manages.

"Fast or slow?" Cal repeats patiently and even though she doesn't let his hair go, he places soft kisses against her throat.

"Uh," Gillian breathes. She doesn't know. Can't think. Either. All of them. "Both."

Cal gives another grunt (this one sounding amused) and starts moving his fingers again. Agonisingly slowly, making Gillian's muscles tense up all hideously so she feels she might implode like a black hole and suck herself into an abyss. God he's fucking, annoyingly, irritatingly, hot and his fingers and oh! Now he doesn't want any more instruction? He's just... taking initiative now. Good.

God.

Holly mother of _god_.

And then nothing. No more cursing just the agonising sweetness of release and prickling hotness all through her body. She's shivering and shuddering, her grip too tight in his hair, her legs weak and her strength failing on her; oxygen hard to get. They cling to each other, holding each other tightly. Gillian feels herself sway and shoots out a hand to his shoulder at the same time Cal reaches for her arm to steady her. She slides off him to the side but he makes her stay nice and close. Gillian wishes the light was on. She'd like to see his face, see his expression. She wants to see what he thinks of that. She's acutely aware of the fact that he's turned on (it's nice that he is. Makes her want to return the favour).

"Wow," she gushes.

Cal shifts back, lets her take her own weight (she's resting mostly on the mattress now anyway), slides his fingers over her tingly skin. "Figure I owed you one," he says in the dark and she can read a lot in that tone. Half apology, half pride (that's ok, he can be proud, he did good). She might forgive him, but she's not _entirely_ convinced right now that everything between them is ok (not sure it's an easily-fixed-by-an-apology, or a shag, type problem). It doesn't resolve the see-saw nature to his mood, nor does it fix the feelings of loneliness inside her. The first time they had sex, she thought it might be a means to an end, a chance for them to get closer, intimate, and share things, talk about things (or not, as the case may be) for them to get over the hurdle. But it seemed to cause more friction between them (and not the good kind). But something has to change.

"I need it to be different Cal," Gillian starts. It's still dark, she's feeling pretty good, now might be a good time for getting a few things out in the open.

"What was that then?" Cal asks her. Not sharply but still, there's something in his tone that doesn't brook argument. And when she thinks about it, he is kind of right. That right there was different. Firstly, she had an orgasm. Secondly, he could have tried for sex, and was, instead, unselfish and did something just for her (and he's not hinting at reciprocation). So yeah, it's different on two fronts and maybe she should take that and go with it. Give him a chance to show her. It does seem as though he's trying, and she can't, and won't, fault him for that (even if it did take a while). Not everything has to be a discussion.

**PJ**

Ok, so the plan was to do something for Gillian, to show her he wasn't a completely selfish bastard, (and that also, by the way, he _does_ know his way around a woman's body, thank you very much. Plus, he was paying attention when Gillian showed him) not necessarily have her reciprocate. But oh he is _not_ complaining (and he's not going to shove her away. He's not that much of an idiot). She doesn't need direction though, seems to have it entirely under control, while he slowly loses it (he probably couldn't manage to voice requests anyway). Even kicking her (accidentally) with his bulky cast doesn't put her off and he is absolutely putty in her... mouth. Even when he feels like he's about to climax, his body tensing with it and the words in the back of his throat to warn her, she withdraws and squeezes the tip of him so hard that everything dials back several notches and he can go twice as long.

Seriously, he thinks he loves her even more.

After he had finished her (and, it just goes to show, there is no way he could have missed her climaxing if he had truly been paying attention before. Not after the delightful show she put on a moment ago. Definitely _no way_ he would have missed that normally. Which means he's kind of been a prick, even if he didn't actually mean to. And he wishes the lights were on, so he could see her face) she slid off him and he pushed himself into a sitting position (even though its dark, he's not going back to sleep) preparing to get up. But she didn't leave the room. She pulled back the covers and kneeled over his thighs and lowered her head to his groin.

It's probably the best blow job he's had in... well, maybe saying his whole life would be an exaggeration, but it's got to be incredibly close. It's certainly the best he's had in a _long_ time (he can't even think back to the last one) and he wishes it were this good when they were actually having sex. Because sex isn't just about him getting off, it's meant to be about intimacy and being connected and he most definitely wants that with Gillian. That's why he wanted to do something just for her when the opportunity arose (he's not much in a position to be able to instigate, but he is willing to take control as much as he can).

For half a day, after she told him she had 'thought it would get better' (and she was so clearly disappointed that it hadn't, that he was a failure) he thought about getting over her. But as soon as she comes home he wants to be with her all over again (and no, it's not lost on him that when she's here it feels like _home_,and when she's not it's just a house to him). Which makes the whole non-orgasm thing so much more pitiful because he wants her to feel as fricking good as he feels right now, every time they're together.

Gillian finishes, gets up and kisses him on the cheek, murmuring that she's going to go have a shower, and leaves him shaky and sweaty on the bed, in the dark, coming down off a beautiful high, unable to form words (doesn't say thank you). He was actually serious about just doing something for Gillian, but this is better; it already feels much more intimate. As he regains his breath he thinks he should probably go have a wash as well. He's actually really glad that he thought to yesterday, what with all the... intimacy... that has inadvertently occurred. Because he's kind of been a slob too really. He doesn't remember the last time he bothered with a proper sponge bath (just did the important bits) and it's been over a week since Gillian washed his hair for him (he didn't this latest time, to be fair. He managed one shampoo in the bathroom sink before he just got tired with using his left arm, leaning over etc. The whole thing. And gave up).

Cal gets himself back together, shifts to the edge of the bed. He reaches for his crutches but they seem to be gone. He was pretty sure he brought them to bed last night, but it wouldn't be the first time he's left them in another part of the house. He leans to put the bedside light on, the brightness cutting into his eyes. He sees the time (seven) and his crutches; they slid to the floor. It's a bit bloody awkward trying to stoop to pick them up (when he can't bend his knee at all) but luckily for him, Gillian's not around to witness (or do it for him).

A few minutes later, when Cal's at the dresser putting a clean shirt on, Gillian comes in. She comes to stand in front of him (in only a towel... with her hair all wet... good lord) and puts an arm around his shoulder, a kiss on his mouth. He catches the scent of soap and she asks him if he wants breakfast. It takes him a moment to find his voice (she does that to him); yes he does. She entices him with eggs and bacon and coffee.

"You had me at breakfast," Cal tells her and she laughs, her eyes a beautiful colour in the light (it really is amazing what a good orgasm can do to a mood), and Cal smiles in response. "Thank you," he blurts.

She gives him an easy smile. "You're welcome."

"No," Cal brings a hand to her waist, getting serious. "Thank you."

A little frown creases her forehead and she loses that easy amused air. "For?"

"You know," he gestures to the bed (and yes, he's pathetic for not being able to say it aloud).

The smile is back, coy and pleased. "Well, thank you." Cal grins and she presses a kiss against his smiling mouth. She tells him she's going to go and get dressed (he's disappointed she's not going to get naked right here) and that she'll be back in a minute. He hears her on the stairs as he goes to use the bathroom himself. Then he swings himself down to the kitchen and starts with making coffee. Gillian seems pleased enough when she comes (she gives his waist a squeeze, both hands on each side) and goes to get mugs.

She smells really amazing.

Cal pours coffee while Gillian gets ingredients from the fridge. She cooks and Cal stands near her watching; they both sip at coffee. Gillian's mostly silent as she works but she's flirty and that is what draws Cal near (plus, she touches him every so often and he's not going to swing away from that). She does make occasional comments, about laundry and other mundane things, but Cal doesn't mind it much. The important bit is that it feels comfortable, and he doesn't feel like a grumpy frustrated asshole (orgasms really _do_ do a lot for mood).

Gillian serves up and they go through to the dining room to eat in more comfortable silence. Gillian carries Cal's plate for him but when he approaches the table he realises it's the perfect height for him to bend her over it (he thinks he might be able to manage that and it sounds preferable to her always on top of him. Note the _always_ part.)

"Ok?" Gillian asks him with an amused look in her eye.

Cal realises she's already sitting, fork in hand, while he's standing by his place setting, eyes glazed, fantasising about screwing her against the furniture. "Yeah," he sits hurriedly (hurriedly for him anyway, which still involves some odd manoeuvring and banging his plaster against the wooden table. But he is actually getting better at it).

Breakfast is good but conversation is light. Cal's not entirely sure what to say now after the sexy bits. It's not embarrassing or weird, it's just... They've had a weird week and it's basically swung around a hundred and eighty degrees and he's not sure of his footing again. It feels better, but he thinks it's probably not 'fixed'. Gillian doesn't bring it up and it was never his intention to (he was going to show her, rather than tell her, because he's not sure she would believe him if he used words).

When they fall into silence he pushes on to tell her about attempting to wash his own hair (and mostly failing) and Gillian studies him all over (which makes him feel squirmy and he has to look away; which also unsettles him because he's not used to being under scrutiny that he can't handle) and she casually offers to help him do it properly. Cal agrees (he's not _not_ going to have her completely undivided attention) and then asks about her job to take the heat off of him (because he keeps trying to picture her face while he's got his fingers inside her and then with her head in his lap and normally that wouldn't bother him at all, but there's the whole three-times-no-orgasm thing still hanging over them and now they haven't dealt with it. Which, he admits, maybe he was hoping the bit in bed was going to change. However, it hasn't instigated a conversation. So. Now it's strange again. But for a different reason. Or maybe it's just strange for him. Gillian doesn't seem to be having a problem with this. And even that kind of annoys him a bit. She's far more frustrating than he originally thought. And he needs to calm the hell down lest he let himself get carried away with being grumpy, and also, she's talking, so he should listen).

Gillian actually gives him a bit more details about her new job than she has before and so he's able to ask follow up questions and gets a vague picture of what her new life outside of this house is like. She leaves so damn early in the morning (some mornings) because she has to be available from seven-thirty (!) in case a student needs to talk to her. But on the flip side she can come home early those days too (Cal only noticed that once. Shame on him). She spends most of her time in her office. She tells him whereabouts it's located and who else works there. She seems... happy, talking about it and describing it to him and he feels... jealous and sort of weird. He feels not happy about it. But he's not entirely sure why. Jealous because she gets to leave the house and have a life? Or jealous because she's having a life without him?

Cal watches Gillian eat and talk, tries to imagine her face when she's in the throes of ecstasy; her mouth, on him, and the little dart of her tongue when she puts food past her lips. He thinks about the table again. He thinks about Gillian sitting on it with hardly any clothes on, her thighs around his waist, and that expression again... (he'd rather see it in person than try to drum up an inferior image).

"You're a million miles away?" Gillian says.

"I want to do you on the table," Cal blurts without thinking. If he could have kicked himself, he would have. This is probably not the right to be making requests (and he's not sure he has the right to, seeing as he... has been... selfish-but-not-selfish). He looks over at Gillian and her face is frozen in astonishment. Cal's face feels warm and he hopes he's not blushing. Gillian's eyes flicker down and then back up to meet his while he's trying to think of something to say to cover that slip of the tongue (mmm Gillian's tongue).

"Right now?" She speaks into the silence. "Or can I finish my breakfast?"

Cal laughs, because he can't help it (he's embarrassed. He's never been that crude with Gillian. He's been suggestive, but it's usually been pretty tame) but to his relief, Gillian joins him. Colour rises in her cheeks but she does chuckle. Her eyes flicker back to her plate; she wasn't being serious. Cal wonders if she will take any of what he said seriously. Because he kind of was.

Gillian finishes her food. She gets up and warps an arm around his head, plants a kiss at the side of his eye before leaving the room. She stacks the dishwasher, leaving it for Cal to add his plate and turn on. But by the time he gets to the kitchen (a slow an awkward process while trying to carry something) she's gone again. He hears her upstairs and waits at the stairs for her to come back down, but she doesn't and after a minute he gives up waiting and goes to the couch, slinging himself down in his usual position and closing his eyes. When he holds his breath (which makes it quieter) he can hear the beep of the washing machine. It suddenly occurs to him that he could have done laundry during the week. Just like he could have cooked, to save Gillian from having to do it when she got home from work. He files that way for his plan to be less of a moody prick; he can show her.

"Are you awake?" He hears and then almost immediately. "Or maybe not."

Cal opens his eyes and looks up at Gillian standing over him (who looks just as cute in comfy home clothes and no make-up as she does in work attire and sexy heels). She's looking down at him. "I am," he counters and she gives him a smile. He finds himself returning it and he can't help but think about this morning and just before, at the table (letting slip about the table...). Mostly this morning though, the sound of her desperate voice, the pulse of her hips against his body as she strived towards release, the hotness and wetness; it's almost like they'd had sex for the first time (like how it should have been the first time they had sex) and now he can't get it out of his head. And then there was the bit where she shoved him back down to the bed and made an entirely memorable mess of him. He's at risk of his body suddenly revealing too much. And maybe he already has given something away in his face, because Gillian's expression changes and she wets her lips and there's something dirty and hungry in her eyes.

She moves slowly, gives him warning, but she's still quickly straddling over his chest and leaning down to kiss him, her hands planted on his shoulders, her short hair falling against his cheek. He brings his hands to her jaw (has to hurriedly struggle his broken one out from the back of the couch) and caresses her skin, holds her hair out of his face, pulls her a little closer. She doesn't kiss him chastely, she gets into it right away, but nor is it vulgar; it's intense, it's purposeful; it turns him on a little more. She gives a hum against his mouth and pushes her nose into the side of his as she opens her mouth further. She tastes of mint and hints of coffee and she smells clean and enticing. Cal feels warm all over and just as he realises he's forgotten to breathe and needs air, Gillian breaks away from him with a heavy sigh, kissing along his cheek, her breath hot against his skin until she reaches his ear. She uses her tongue to trace around the ridges of cartilage, making him flinch hard and hitch his breath. There's a groan escaping out of his throat before he can help it but Gillian doesn't hesitate or gloat, she keeps going.

Cal uses his left hand to pull at the sweatshirt she's wearing, finding the slight gap where it ends and her stomach is beneath (has to squish in there because she's pressing against him) and drags fingers over the bare, hot skin there. Gillian presses down with her hips against his ribs, gripping with her thighs, and when he gains a bit more of his senses and realises he can bury his face into her neck (because she's leaning so low) and use his tongue too (two can play that game) it's Gillian who's whispering little moans right into his ear. It's hot. It's seriously hot. She's so... damn... she's just hot. He could fantasise about her for the rest of his life.

How come it wasn't like this before?

What had he missed?

Aside from the obvious bit (yeah, yeah, he gets it), how come it wasn't like this from the start? From their very first kiss? Had he misread the timing of that night? Maybe he was meant to take her out to dinner and a romantic walk along the river (there was a river here in Boulder, wasn't there?) or a park or something (like he was going to walk with her anywhere right now). The fact that he had a broken leg put the kibosh on that so he had gone for a back up. He thought they had been getting closer, she was in bed with him, she was practically leaning all over him, so he had gone for it (but maybe that had been wrong?). And yet, Gillian hadn't been complaining. She had kissed him back (heatedly). And she was the one to start exploring and taking clothes off.

But that doesn't explain why Gillian's kissing him this way _now_, instead of then, and it doesn't explain why she was the one to move them along towards the bit where they were no long making out and were instead actually screwing. She had done that; she took charge. So he had assumed she was ready (maybe they hadn't fooled around long enough? Probably, actually, probably. But she could have stopped him, she could have insisted on more; he would have done anything she asked.) If he wasn't physically limited, he might have insisted on a bit more touching (to be fair, if he wasn't physically restrained like he is now, he would have absolutely been in there, on his knees in front of her. He would _definitely_ get down on his knees for her. No doubt). He would have taken a bit more control himself; made sure she was already crying out his name before he took anything for himself.

He doesn't know why he's still going over it. He can't change the past, only the future and he's already promised himself he will.

He's still partially (mostly) at Gillian's mercy now. She's mobile and on top of him, sitting on his chest (which at least means she's nice and close. He can use his right hand to grip into the back of her knee). He'd like to turn her over, press her down into the couch, but the sheer, ludicrous half thought of him attempting that stays his place. It's frustrating, but he starts to see that this hasn't all been his fault. And he kind of tried to make it better. And that might have worked, because Gillian's here now, clearly wanting more (that is most definitely a good thing) and Cal starts to let himself off the hook. He wants to go with this new moment, the seriously hot kissing (Gillian goes back to his mouth, relentless, her hips grinding, her tongue deep and thorough), and pretend the disastrous other attempts at sex haven't even occurred. He might not actually be up for much right now (he's older than he used to be... it's harder. Or not, as the case may be) but that doesn't mean he can't do things for her. Over and over and over...

He really would like to make love to her though. When he's thought about them being together for the first time (and yes, he's thought about it before. Extensively), he imagined it more like this (hot and a little desperate), and much less like those other times (yes, that might be a little arrogant of him, and yes, he's let himself off the hook completely. He's not saying Gillian's at fault. But she did take charge). This is Gillian. Their chemistry has been fantastic. It was meant to be like _this_. Not like _that_.

"Cal," Gillian murmurs against his mouth. Cal pushes up with his hips (connects with nothing, because she's not there, but hah! This time, he only put pressure on his left unbroken leg), reaches with his left hand (he's trying to get to breast but the angle is not quite right) and follows her mouth when she breaks away to look down at him. Her eyes are dark and her cheeks a little red and somehow her hair has gotten sexily tossed; god she looks incredible. He wants her. He wants her so badly. Please let her want him as well.

"Gillian," Cal whispers back into the short gap before her mouth is back on his. Mmm damn she feels so good. He skirts fingers around her ribs, falling into that subconscious rhythm of kissing and caressing, building the heat within them both. He can't understand why it wasn't like this from the start, but he knows that this is how amazing it's meant to be (and the little preview in bed this morning is a very good goal to strive for; but he definitely wants to knock it out of the park).

A knock at the door has him disrupted and as he hesitates Gillian picks up on it and draws away, a questioning expression in her eye. "Door," Cal murmurs and Gillian is entertainingly confused for a few seconds. Then there's another knock and something else comes over her, that slight hesitation and worry (it seems for a moment there, both of them managed to forget that they're in hiding). Gillian swings off him, grabbing at her top to return it to place, smoothing back her hair (it's a little disappointing that she seems to get a grip on herself so easily. Cal wants to be able to completely disarm her. He wants to be the most amazing thing that ever happened to her.)

"Hi," Gillian answers the door with a smile in her tone (Cal can't see, but he can hear) and there's a responding female voice. Cal can't quite catch her words but he picks up on enough of it from Gillian to decipher the conversation (and he can tell it's nothing to worry about). The woman at the door is a neighbour (obviously one Gillian has met before, because she's very friendly). She's telling Gillian about something and inviting her (and probably Cal too) to attend. Gillian is gracious (and maybe a little pleased. Which doesn't bode well for Cal) and makes agreement type statements, while also possibly leaving herself an out if she needs it. Gillian thanks the woman for coming over. She says goodbye and closes the door. Cal shifts himself into a sitting position (turning to put his cast on the coffee table), somehow knowing the chances of finishing what they started are slim. Gillian comes back into the room with a smile and Cal feels wary.

"That was Mary-Ann," Gillian tells him.

Cal does a blank. Is he meant to know who Mary-Ann is?

"Our neighbour from across the road?" Gillian prompts as she pushes him back by the shoulder so he's resting against the back of the couch. She kneels on the cushion to straddle across his thighs and Cal thinks his chances of continuing the making out/feeling up might have suddenly greatly increased their odds. He looks up at her, sees the question on her face, remembers that she was asking him a question. Mary-Ann from across the street. Grocery/casserole lady.

"Right," he nods.

"They're having a barbeque dinner this afternoon and invited us over."

'_Sounds horrendous_,' Cal thinks to himself. He keeps his face neutral for Gillian though because one, he can tell she likes the idea and two, he half suspects she's going to make him go (if he can't think of a good reason why not quickly enough).

"What do you think?" She goes on.

Cal takes a second to breathe. How to handle this?

"You don't want to?" Gillian asks him anyway.

"Isn't it a bit cold to be eating outside?"

Gillian shrugs. "They're celebrating that we didn't get any more snow."

"Could snow today."

"It's not forecast," Gillian sing-songs with a smile.

"Well that doesn't mean anything," Cal counters bluntly, an amused expression of his own.

"Do you want to come?" Gillian asks again and her tone has lost its teasing.

"Not really."

"Ok," Gillian says, just as neutral as she was a moment ago. Cal isn't sure what to do with that at all. It's implied so heavily in the air that he should go, and yet Gillian isn't demanding it, isn't making a scene, isn't manipulating him. But she kind of is. Because if he says he isn't going then she will get mad at him and they just seemed to have gotten over the silent treatment bit. And if he goes then he's going to hate it and be all miserable about having to stand on his broken leg for most of the evening (she'll probably say she'll make sure to find him a chair. And she will, but that's not the point) and make small talk with people he doesn't know and will probably be bored shitless.

All of that in just one look on her face.

Cal sighs. "Fine I'll go."

"No that's ok, if you don't want to go," Gillian responds casually. "But I'm going to. So I'm going to make a pasta salad to take." She goes to shift off him (moving carefully so she doesn't crush her weight into the small surface area of his un-plastered thigh) but Cal stops her with a hand on her arm.

"I'll go," he repeats.

"You just said you didn't want to go."

"Yes," he agrees, but it feels like a trap. And he notices just how odd this situation has become. He and Gillian have fallen into 'old married couple' territory. Gillian who was, until a month ago, just his business partner and (best) friend. Who he also was secretly in love with (still is, he thinks... or knows...) and hiding from everyone. He wanted to be with her and now that he is he finds it surreal and unmanageable. They're doing this whole thing backwards and he's not sure he's comfortable with that (they also went from crappy sex to hot oral sex when isn't it meant to be the other way around?). "But, do you want me to go?"

"Sure. I'd like that," Gillian says. She studies him for a moment and he flounders because... because... where's the bit where she argues that he has to be social for her and make an effort and if he expects to get any then he's going to do what she suggests? And it _is_ just a suggestion. He can stay here if he wants to. But then he's definitely going to be in the dog box, he just knows it. But Gillian doesn't say any of that normal stuff and Cal can't seem to find it in her demeanour, even though he looks. She seems genuinely content to go to the neighbour thing on her own and Cal doesn't like it. Maybe he'd like to be begged a little. Maybe that's a shitty way to behave. He doesn't really know what to do. He's not encountered this before. He hopes it gets easier, between them, he hopes this whole thing gets better.

"Cal," Gillian gives a frustrated sigh. "Why is this so hard?" She asks quietly.

Is she reading his thoughts?

"You either want to go, or you don't," Gillian finishes.

Maybe she isn't reading his thoughts.

Because the thing is, he doesn't know.

Cal almost asks her to beg him but that's really not right. He wants to go to be with her, but he doesn't want to go for all the other patience-trying conversations he's going to have to have. Actually, that's not half bad. "I want to spend the evening with you. So if you're going to be across the road, then I guess I will be too," he says.

Gillian watches him a second and then her expression softens micro-fractionally and she gives a slight little smile that she feels the need to smother against his mouth. She gives him a tight kiss, her fingers against his jaw as she leans into him and then pulls back, amused but kind of resigned. "Good save," she notes and does get up this time. "Want to help me make something?" She asks casually as she leaves the room.

"No," Cal calls after her. He hears the huff of her laugh and sits silently for a moment. He can't help but feel as though he's been played, but he can't quite see how. He's meant to make a decision but the decision should be the one that she wanted? Does it matter? He did tell her the truth though: he wants to be where she is. And he's trying to be less of a moody bastard. So... Good.

Then he pushes himself to get up and follow her into the kitchen anyway.


End file.
